Soldier and dramatist; being the letters of Harold Chapin, American citizen, who died for England at Loos on September 26th, 1915

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

9i^-<i

SOLDIER AND DRAMATIST

1

HAKuiD til. Mi:

S. Lanjifr, Gla

SOLDIER AND
DRAMATIST

BEING THE LETTERS OF

HAROLD CHAPIN

AMERICAN CITIZEN WHO
DIED FOR ENGLAND AT LOOS
ON SEPTEMBER 26TH, 1915.
WITH TWO PORTRAITS

LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXVII

Second Edition

WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND LECCLESj ENGLAND

" I go to prove my soul.
I see my way as birds their trackless way,
I shall arrive ! what time, what circuit first
I ask not : but unless God send His hail
Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stiffling snow,
In some time— His good time— I shall arrive :
He guides me and the bird. In His good time ! "

Robert Browning

1670527

CONTENTS

PAGE

The Record of a Life, By Sidney Dark , , ix

How Harold Chapin Died xx

Harold Chapin, Dramatist. By William Archer xxv

Letters from the Training Camp . . ■ 35

Letters from France io7

Appendix A. Harold Chapin's Plays . . . 285
Appendix B. Programme of the "Harold

Chapin Memorial Performance" . . . 286

THE RECORD OF A LIFE
By Sidney Dark

HAROLD CHAPIN was born in Brooklyn,
U.S.A., on February 15th, 1886. He was
killed at the Battle of Loos, on September the
26th, 1915.

His family is of old New England stock, de-
scended from Huguenot refugees, and there are
family legends of an Indian princess who married
one of his ancestors. With his characteristic love
of the picturesque, Harold always insisted on the
reality of his Indian ancestress.

His mother was a Unitarian, and it was in this
faith that he was reared. In the autumn of 1888,
Mrs. Chapin brought her baby son to Europe.
They stayed for a little while in Paris, and,
before he was three years of age, they came to
London. It was in England that Harold Chapin
lived the rest of his life.

His mother is an actress, and in August, 1893,
when Harold was seven years old, she was engaged

X WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

to play Volumnia in " Coriolanus " during the
Shakespeare Festival at Stratford-on-Avon. The
Festival was postponed that year from April to
August owing to Sir Frank Benson's illness.
Harold went to Stratford with his mother. Mr.
Benson was attracted by the small boy and asked
Mrs. Chapin to let him play young Marcus. His
first appearance, therefore, on any stage was in
the Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon, in this
part.

His first essay in playwriting was made when he
was only a few months older. His main interest
at that time was nigger minstrelsy and this first
play called " False Colours " was designed for
the Moore and Burgess Minstrels.

Harold Chapin made various appearances on
the stage during his childhood, but his mother
would not allow his schooling to be interfered with,
and his work on the stage was limited to special
holiday weeks. He was sent, when he was nine,
to the North London Collegiate School and after-
wards to the Norwich Grammar School. He
disliked boarding school intensely, and he after-
wards always denounced the custom of sending
boys away from home to be educated. He
finished his education (1901 and 1902) at Uni-
versity College School, two very happy years
always remembered with satisfaction, and one

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xi

of the many plans he made for his own small
son was that he should be sent to this same
school.

Harold Chapin, as a boy, was quick and in-
telligent, but always far less interested in the
work appointed for him than in his own de-
sultory reading and his own many adventures.
He loved wandering about the country, filled with
an insatiable and detailed curiosity. He was a
tiring companion when he was quite little, for he
had to stop every other minute to examine a new
stone, to prod down a hole to discover where it
led, to pick an unfamiliar flower, to gaze at a
spider or a toad. In London he would explore
mean streets and little-known alleys, observing
and remembering. One of his boyish charac-
teristics was a deep and gentle love of animals.
This remained with him to the end and is reflected
in the humorous letters to his dog, Emma,
written from the front, and included in this book.

In the autumn of 1902, Harold Chapin went on
the stage in earnest, playing Billy in a "fit up "
tour of " Sherlock Holmes." A tour with " The
Red Lamp " followed. In 1903, he spent some
time with a real Crummies' Company in which he
played many and various parts from Hastings in
" Jane Shore " to the father in " Maria Martin "
or " The Murder in the Red Barn.'' This relative

xii WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

should really have been Maria's mother but,
women running short, the sex was changed to
suit the exigencies of the company. Chapin
thorougUy enjoyed this rather uncomfortable
experience. The queer people with their queer
characteristics and queerer patois appealed to his
keen sense of humour and to his delight in every
living thing from a bumble bee to a bad actor,
and this engagement undoubtedly gave him the
idea of his first long play "The Marriage of
Columbine." The tour was short and unpro-
ductive and ended in a wire asking for money to
get back to civilization.

A pause in town followed while he studied
singing. His voice was baritone, well modulated
and full of expression, but he never made any
professional use of it. Music, however, was always
to him a means of rest and the Queen's Hall often
helped him through weary rehearsals. He wrote
a good deal of poetry in these beginning years, and
in 1905 he tried his hand at the book of a comic
opera which he called " Kings in Ireland."

At Christmas, 1905, he was in the Drury Lane
pantomime, understudying and playing the comic
policeman in the Harlequinade, the bustle and fun
of which delighted him immensely. He never
lost his love for the more simple and ingenuous
forms of theatrical entertainment and one of his

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xiii

many unfulfilled ambitions was to write a revue
and play in it, himself.

During 1906 and 1907 he acted in " The Prodigal
Son " at Drury Lane, " A Pantomime Rehearsal "
on tour, "The Bondman" at the Adelphi, and
" Her Love Against the World," " The Midnight
Wedding," and " The Christian " at the Lyceum.
He became assistant stage manager when this last
play was moved to the Shaftesbury.

In 1908, he played Balthazar in " Romeo and
Juliet " at the Lyceum, and later in the year he
joined Mr. Frohman's management at the Duke
of York's. Here he was first associated with Mr.
Granville Barker. In 1909, he played in " What
Every Woman Knows " and " Strife," and stage
managed the special matinees of " Press Cuttings "
at the Court.

With all this hard work he never for a moment
forgot his ambition to write plays. That was to be
his real work. He always carried in his pocket a
little notebook in which he would write down
lines and situations as they occurred to him. He
continued his voyages of discovery, often in the
middle of the night and after a long day's work at
the theatre.

In 1 910 he was engaged for the Repertory
Season at the Duke of York's, playing many
parts, among them Callow in ■' Prunella." Early

xlv WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

this year his first one-act play, "Augustus in Search
of a Father," was produced at the Court by the
Play Actors, the author himself appearing as
Augustus. In March, his " Marriage of Colum-
bine " was played by the same society. His
mother has a charming recollection of this im-
portant evening.

" He was such an excited boy that night. He
sat back in his box, concealed from the audience
watching eagerly and anxiously, and when the
genuine enthusiasm at the close of the perform-
ance told him that his play was a success he put
his head on my shoulder and whispered : ' Do
they like it. Do you really think they like it ? ' "

On June 4th, 1910, he married Calypso Valetta.
He and his wife had met as members of the same
company. The Frohman Repertory Season lasted
until the end of July and then he and his wife
went to Bemaval for their first real honeymoon.
He came back to the Duke of York's to play in
" A Bolt from the Blue," which had only a
short run, and then, after a month or so of
tourmg in a sketch, he joined the Glasgow
Repertory Theatre as one of the producers. His
wife went to Glasgow with him and played with
the company. During 1911, his one-act plays
■' Muddle Annie " and " The Autocrat of the
Coffee Stall " were produced in Glasgow, and

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xv

" Augustus in Search of a Father " and " The
Marriage of Columbine " were revived. He came
back to London in the summer of 1911, stage
managed " The Girl Who Couldn't Lie " at the
Criterion and acted in a special performance of
Strindberg's " The Father." In September he
went back to Glasgow for a second season during
which " The Dumb and the Blind " (first called
" God and Mrs, Henderson ") was produced. In
December, 191 1, his son was born, and when the
child was less than a month old, Harold Chapin
and his wife came back to town. Before leaving
Glasgow he wrote to Mr. Granville Barker asking
if he could give him an engagement. Mr. Barker
replied that he was then producing a musical
comedy and inquired if Chapin could sing. He
promptly wired back " Yes, trained baritone
voice." He did not, however, appear in the
musical comedy, Mr. Barker engaging him as
stage manager at the Kingsway, where " Fanny's
First Play " was then being performed.

The constant strain of work led at this time to
a rather serious breakdown, but he recovered in
time to attend the rehearsals of his brilliant
comedy, ■" Art and Opportunity," which was
produced in the autumn of 1912 at the Prince
of Wales's Theatre by Miss Marie Tempest.
This production made him known to a wider

xvi WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

public and he was recognized by all the most
considerable critics as one of the two most promis-
ing of the younger men writing for the British
theatre. While " Art and Opportunity " was
running at the Prince of Wales's, he became stage
director of the Savoy during Mr. Barker's series
of Shakespearian revivals, an engagement which
was to him an unqualified delight. About the
same time his four-act play " Elaine," written
while he was in Glasgow, was produced by Miss
Horniman at the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, and
at Christmas his " Wonderful Grandmamma; or,
The Wand of Youth " was played at the same
theatre.

In 1913 and the first half of 1914 his " Dumb
and the Blind " was acted for several months at
the Prince of Wales's first as part of a triple bill
and then as a front piece, " It's the Poor that
'Elps the Poor " and " Every Man for His Own "
were produced, and " Dropping the Baby " was
played as a first piece at the Playhouse.

Early in 1913, he acted at the Vaudeville in
Mr, Jerome K. Jerome's " Robina in Search of a
Husband," and he understudied during Messrs.
Mackinnel and Whelen's season at this theatre.
He played David Quixano in Mr. Israel Zangwill's
"The Melting Pot" when it was produced by
the Play Actors. When the play was afterwards

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xvii

taken to the Comedy he was the stage manager
and he played the leading part towards the con-
clusion of the run. He afterwards produced and
played in Mr. Zangwill's " Plaster Saints." By
this time his great ability as a producer was
widely recognized and he received may offers for
this kind of work.

War was declared on August the 4th 1914, and
at once all Harold Chapin's interests and thoughts
were changed. He could only think of the war
and of England's share in it. He could not act.
" It seemed so silly," he said. He could not write.
He could only watch for war news and attend
classes in first aid. Finally, on September 2nd,
he enlisted in the R.A.M.C. From the moment
he joined, as is evident from his early letters, he
threw all his enthusiasm, his strength, and his
power of concentration into the new task. The
artist and the dreamer became the enthusiastic
soldier, enduring the unaccustomed hardships with
a cheery good nature which made him immensely
popular with his comrades. One of his mother's
old friends wrote her a letter in which she said
how noble it was of her son " to fight for king and
country." Harold laughed when he was shown
the letter. "I'm fighting for no king," he said,
" and the best of this king is that he knows we
are not fighting for him."

B

xviii WAR LETTERS OF A DRiVMATIST

Harold Chapin's character is vividly revealed
in his letters — ^his acute power of observation,
his humour, his courage, his wide democratic
sympathies, and his intense affection. He died
at the beginning of his life and when the man in
him was still in the making.

He was my friend, and when one's friend dies
a hero's death the fact fills one with pride and
humility. Until the last two years, it was not
what we expected of our friends. They were
kind and considerate and understanding, but we
never suspected them of heroism. We had,
indeed, lost faith in ourselves. We had ceased
to believe that man was made in the image of
God. Now we know better.

Chapin's best and most characteristic work is,
unquestionably, to be found in his one-act plays,
in most of which he is concerned with the life of
the very poor. He never gushes or sentimentalizes.
He always writes with critical sympathy. His
touch is sure, and his line is clear. A good short
play is as rare as a good short story, and nothing
better of their kind has been given to the English
stage, in our time, than his " The Dumb and the
Blind " and his " It's the Poor that 'Elps the
Poor." It is certain that, if he had lived, his
work must have grown in range and power, and
his death is a grievous loss for a theatre largely

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xix

left to vulgar futilities. The men of acknow-
ledged genius who do write for the theatre are
inhuman. Their eyes are blinded by their lentil
diet. Harold Chapin was at least a man.

He was fastidious, self-reliant, sure of himself,
and eager, above all things, to do the best work
of which he was capable. He cared less than
nothing for the extra loaves and fishes that come
with success, and, as he told me in the last gossip
we ever had, his most miserable days were during
the run of " Art and Opportunity," when sub-
stantial royalties were coming to him every week.
He was a splendid friend, because of his gift of
understanding. He was ascetic in all his tastes.
He was indeed a Puritan, with infinite toleration
and with the soul of the artist.

Harold Chapin was killed on Sunday, Sep-
tember 26th, at the battle of Loos. He was only
twenty-nine on that Sunday afternoon, but he
had lived worthily and he died gloriously.

XX WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

HOW HAROLD CHAPIN DIED.

The following letter from Mr. Richard Capell,
one of Harold Chapin's comrades, was the first
intimation Mrs. Chapin received of her husband's
death. It was, of course, written hurriedly and
under trying conditions, hut it gives so touching and
dramatic an account of Harold Chapin's last days,
that it is felt that it must he included in this hook
exactly as it was received.

October 3rd, 1915.

My dear Mrs. Chapin,

I beg you to accept my heartfelt con-
dolences. I would not so much as hint at the
word consolation to you after this unutterably
cruel blow, — even to us, his chance friends of less
than a year, it seems too cruel to be realisable, —
were it not that I can give you some account, at
first hand, of the splendid work of your husband
on those days, September 25th and 26th. It
must surely be, eventually, a consolation to you
to think that, he died no mean, casual death, but
that he was shot down (on the afternoon of
Sunday a week ago) when actually on an errand
of help, and after giving himself up for hour after
hour to heavy and perilous toil for the wounded.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xxi

I have been at some pains to get for you some
details of that fatal afternoon, but I cannot —
the reason will be obvious — now tell you quite
all there is. The essential is that on Sunday
morning an appeal came to our station for stretcher-
bearers to assist a battalion, seven of whose
bearers were out of action. Your husband
and two other men set out for the trenches in
question, which were to the south-west of Loos.
The journey, itself, had its perils. Over the
distance of two miles or thereabouts, the Ger-
mans, who were rallying after their defeat of the
day before, could enfilade our ground. One day
I will explain the position with precision. The
three of them eventually reached the series of
trenches at a moment when the Germans were
counter-attacking, and were told by an officer
that stretcher-work was impossible at such a
moment. It was suicide to show one's head
above the parapet. This was, of course, one of
the old German trenches, and the enemy fire
came both from front and right flank. Chapin
consequently told the two others to wait for him
while he reported to the medical officer who had
appealed in the morning, his intention being to
return to collect the wounded after dark, as we
did during the week as a matter of routine. The
two never saw him again.

xxii WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Our line that afternoon wavered for a moment,
before the counter-attack. There was a short
period of confusion, and some of our men were
caught in the open by German rifle and machine-
gun fire. You may possibly one day get an
exact account from an actual eye-witness, but from
what I can piece together, your husband went
over the parapet to fetch in some wounded man.
He was certainly shot in the foot. It appears
that he persisted and was then killed outright by
a shot through the head.

Our work was so exacting at that moment,
that hours passed before Chapin's absence was
noticed at our station, and it was not till the
following morning that we felt anxious.

I pass over a series of extravagant adventures
that befell me as I made my way, then, to your
husband's destination of the day before, with
the idea of getting first-hand information. I
found myself on the scene when the English
were making a further attack. It was im-
possible, in daylight, to go into the open, but
I found from a medical officer that a lance-
corporal of the R.A.M.C. had, the night before,
been seen dead over the parapet. The English
attack, that afternoon, improved the position.
The next morning, we had a run out there
your husband had been buried in the night near

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xxiii

where he fell. I went down on Wednesday to
the trenches, saw the officer who had been in
charge of the burial party, and eventually got
the papers, watch, etc., which were found on
his body. These you will have received by
now, I suppose. There can be no harm in
telling you that he lies with six other London
Territorials, within a few hundred yards of Loos
cemetery.

If I have the pleasure of seeing you again,
when this ghastly business is over, I will tell
you something of Chapin's fine work on the
Saturday, collecting wounded on the wire
before the first captured German trench. For
many hours I was out there with him ; — heart-
breaking conditions, twenty appeals for help
where one could only heed one ; rain for hour
after hour, and no little annoyance from cross-
fire. On one journey, three of us (your husband
was one) came in for a tempest of fire. Two
of us lay low with the laden stretcher on the
grass, while your husband volunteered to go
ahead into the village, using a communication
trench to bring back the " wheels," by which
we get stretchers along at a good pace over
roads. Eventually the tempest ended, and the
whole day ended without casualties for us. We
went to bed at midnight for two hours. Before

xxiv WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

daybreak I joined a party that was going to
Loos, and so began the fatal Sunday.

If, dear Mrs. Chapin, you succeed in getting
more detailed information of your husband's
death it will be from some one or another in
the 17th Battalion London Regiment.

I feel that I am intruding on your grief. Excuse
me, and believe me, with profound sympathy.
Yours very sincerely,

Richard Capell.

HAROLD CHAPIN, DRAMATIST

By William Archer

The following appreciation written after the
Chapin Memorial Performance was published in
the "New York Nation" of January 20th, 1916.
It is reproduced here by the gracious permission
of the Editor and of Mr. Archer.

" The name of Harold Chapin is one of which
America may well be proud ; for, though English
bred, he was born in America, of American
parents. The occasion to which I refer was a
presentation of four of his one-act plays, given in
honour of his memory. For he is dead : he fell
in battle before Loos ; and with the single ex-
ception of Rupert Brooke, no English-speaking
man of more unquestionable genius has been lost
to the world in this world-frenzy. Chapin was
more fortunate than Brooke, for he died in active
and devoted service.

Can you wonder at the emotion with which I,
who had watched Chapin and believed in him

xxvi WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

from the outset of his career, saw the four little
plays which remain perhaps the best witness to
the promise so sadly unfulfilled ?

The outset of his career as a dramatist, I ought
to have said. His career as an actor began when
he was a child ; for he came of a theatrical stock.
As an actor, however, he made no great mark.
Like Granville Barker, he was much more
interested in producing plays — and in writing
them. A queer semi-fantastic comedy, " The
Marriage of Columbine," brought him into notice
some five years ago. A good play it was not, yet
it was full of unmistakable talent and originality.
Several of its lines were of that subtle quality
which takes an appreciable time to get home to
the apprehension of the audience, so that one can
actually watch their effect kindling from row to
row, as it were, through the house. But it was
not like the play in " Le Monde ou Ton s'ennuie "
in which " il-y-avait un beau vers." It had
vitality throughout, and was never commonplace,
either in its merits or its defects. A year or two
later Chapin got his one chance of a regular pro-
duction at a West End theatre. " Art and
Opportunity," a three-act play written for Miss
Marie Tempest, did not show him at his best. It
was brimful of cleverness ; but in adapting the
heroine's character to Miss Tempest's vivacious,

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xxvii

showy talent, Chapin sacrificed some of his
sincerity. He created for her a new type of
adventuress who, from a sort of sporting instinct,
makes a system of playing with her cards upon the
table. Her half-real, half-affected candour is so
successful that a hostile critic says of her : " Why,
Henry, she's as transparent as a jellyfish ; " to
which Henry replies : " Do you know why a
jelly-fish is transparent ? So as not to be seen
too clearly." Not only wit, but real insight,
went to the making of these lines.

His one-act plays, however, show his talent at
its best, and were rightly chosen for the memorial
performance. The first, entitled " It's the Poor
that 'Elps the Poor," is a low-life sketch of ex-
traordinary poignanc3^ Ted Herberts has been
sent to prison for assaulting the police. During
his absence his child has died, and the curtain
rises upon the funeral party of neighbours, re-
turned from the cemetery. In clumsy and
grotesque ways, they show their sympathy with
the bereaved mother ; but it is evident that in
reality the funeral is an occasion of pleasurable
excitement to them. Then the husband, released
from prison before his time, bursts in upon the
party. He has read the report of the inquest
and has seen that the child practically died of
starvation. To the consternation of the mourners,

xxviii WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

who are revelling in the consciousness of their own
goodness of heart, he turns upon them and asks
what the sympathy is worth which can " wake "
a dead child, but cannot make the trifling sacrifices
that would have kept it alive. They allege various
excuses ; it is evident that they have been
thoughtless rather than actually callous ; and at
last the father's bitterness of spirit is swamped in
a burst of natural human grief. Though there is
something of the French comedie rosse in the play,
its humour is not in the least cruel. It leaves
no bad taste behind it, but simply a poignant
sense of the hard conditions of life for those on
the margin of subsistence, and of the prevailing
shiftlessness of the very poor.

Simpler and more delicate is the second little
play, " The Dumb and the Blind." The avoca-
tions of Joe Henderson, bargeman, have been such
as to permit of his spending only two nights a week
in his domestic circle. But now he returns,
accompanied by his pal. Bill, to announce to his
wife, Liz, that he has been promoted to a post
that will give him an additional ten shillings a
week and enable him to come home every night.
In an opening scene between Liz and her sharp
daughter, Emmy, we have gained the impression
that Mr. Henderson's household is more agree-
able without his bodily presence ; and this

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xxix

impression is confirmed when we find him treating
his wife, not with actual brutality, but with
captious and blustering harshness. At last he
sends her out for the indispensable jug of beer,
and sits gossiping with his crony. Impatient of
her delay, he goes to the door and looks out, when
it is evident that he sees something — we know
not what — that somehow impresses him. He
calls " Liz ! " and she comes in rather guiltily,
with the jug still empty. He asks Bill to fetch
the beer, and meanwhile questions his wife.
" Wot was you a-doin' of ? " " Puttin' on me
'at." " No, you wasn't. ... I see you kneelin'
wiv your head on the bed." With great reluctance
she confesses that she was saying her prayers.
" You don't 'ave to say yer prayers before
fetching a drop of beer, do you ? " No ; but it
just came over her, like, that she wanted to.
Why ? Because she felt grateful like — she wanted
to sort o' thank Gawd. The domestic tyrant can
scarcely believe his ears. He questions her
closely to make sure that this is not merely a
mechanical habit of hers, and gradually yields
to the strange conviction that she is positively
glad to have him at home for good. The realiza-
tion induces in him a mood of such solemnity
that when Bill returns with the beer Joe declines
his share of it — a phenomenon which leaves Bill,

XXX WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

in his turn dumfounded. This rough summary
does great injustice to a veritable masterpiece in
its way — a thing Dickens would have delighted
in. There is not a single false note in the little
play : it is as restrained as it is touching. We
feel that the dumb has spoken and the blind has
seen ; and we hope, without too much confidence,
that a new era is dawning on the Henderson
household.

The third play, " The Philosopher of Butter-
biggens," was acted for the first time on any stage.
It is in the Barrie vein, and yet is no mere echo
of Barrie. Its delightful humour would lose too
much in narration, so I shall not attempt it, but
will only say that it is as good in its lighter way as
" The Dumb and the Blind," and that the audience
was charmed with it. A more commonplace
comedietta, " Innocent and Annabel," brought
the programme to a close. It was very amusing,
but not markedly individual.

The general impression left by the performance
was deep and memorable. It was no mere
respectful solemnity : the audience vividly en-
joyed every word of it. Something was due to
the excellent acting ; for many of our best artists
had come forward to do honour to their lost
comrade. But what one realizes most keenly in
retrospect is the abounding vitality of Chapin's

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST xxxi

talent. There was not a moment when one did
not feel one's self in touch with a living spirit,
bounteously endowed with thought, observation,
humour, craftsmanship. It filled one with a
sort of dumb rage to think that such rare promise
had been extinguished, on the threshold of ful-
filment, by the brute hazard of the battlefield.
It was a youth in his twenties who had done all
this fine work — what might we not have expected
from the ripened man ? In Professor Gilder-
sleeve's recently reprinted " Creed of the Old
South " I find a line of Schiller exactly apt to
the occasion :

Ja, der Krieg verschlingt die Besten ;

though one would be sorry to continue the quota-
tion, and say :

Denn Patroklus liegt begraben,
Und Tliersites kommt zuriick.

This would be a gross injustice to thousands of
men who are none the less brave for being fortunate.
But, at any rate, Schiller gives no countenance to
the notion that war subserves the survival of the
fittest. If one could believe that the champions
of that criminal fallacy would be exterminated,
there would be some consolation even for a loss
like that of Harold Chapin. But most of them,
alas ! keep snugly aloof from the firing-line.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Cherry &■ Co., St. Albans

LAXCE-CORPORAI. CHAl'IN, R.A..M.C.

LETTERS FROM THE TRAINING
CAMP

To his Wife.

St. Albans, Nov. 12th.

The parcel arrived quite safe, dearest girl. It
is really impossible to write a letter — we are hard
at it all day and sleeping eight in a room, not a
bit of furniture. I have to be up at 5 to-morrow
morning to light fire in Field Kitchen — out doors
— hope it isn't raining.

Dubbin excellent, ditto puttees. Thanks for
tobacco, don't let any more be sent till I ask for
it this will last a bit.

Thank Heaven for the dressing gown. I have
been sleeping in everything I've got and shiver-
ing and to-day my great coat is wet so I cannot
sleep in it, but the dressing gown will be more
than a substitute.

Day's Hat Factory,
Lattimore Road,

St. Albans.
Nov, i6th, 1914.

It is frantically difficult to write. I have
scarcely time to eat and none to keep clean.

35 c 2

36 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

The cookhouse work is terribly heavy 4 men
under a Sergeant (who also looks after the Officers
and cannot give us much of his time) have to
cook for 240 and that under every difficulty you
can imagine.

We have only eleven " dixies " (large iron
kettles) every one of which is necessary for each
meal and no soda or other means of cleansing
them is issued to us. Our full equipment besides
the dixies is a set of butcher's tools, a couple
of ovens (requiring independent fires over which
ordinary kettles can be boiled), a pick-axe, a
kettle and an iron girder, found here and in-
valuable.

Our fuel consists of loppings and logs brought
in daily — one cart load per day — which we have
to saw into lengths with a borrowed hand-saw
and chop up with the butcher's chopper. Of
course our meat is supplied in half oxen and whole
sheep and sides of bacon which we have to reduce
to joints and stewing pieces.

Our expert cook (under the Sergeant) is an
eccentric lean individual, very foul-mouthed and
good natured. He looks very seedy but is in
fact as strong as a horse. He seems to live on
one meal a day consisting chiefly of biscuits and
pastry from the Y.M.C.A., partaken of at about
11.30 when the dinners are all on. For the rest

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 37

of the day, he supports life on tea strong enough
to blow up a battleship and sweet enough to
satisfy a performing bear.
Must stop. More to-morrow love

Day's Hat Factory,

St. Albans.
Nov. 19th, 1914.

"I'm beginning to find out when my easy
seconds come along, so shall try to write a coherent
letter to-day and to-morrow and post it to-morrow
night. At first it looked as if from 5 a.m. till
10.15 p.m. not a moment could be spared from
cleaning for duty, duty, eating, and sleeping but
as one steadies down odd moments can be found.
For instance while the dixies boil in the afternoon.

The toughest part of this job is the getting up,
morning after morning, at five o'clock and racing
off to the cook's yard and cursing damp wood
into a fire frequently under a steady before-
daybreak drizzle. We certainly see some won-
derful sunrise effects we cooks, and the effect
of a set of chimes here that plays something
quaint (I can't quite make out what) every
morning at six is very beautiful, but it's weary
work, and the fear that the trench may refuse
to light or cave in, thereby depriving two hundred
hungry men of their breakfasts on their return

38 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

from their morning constitutional (a two mile
march before breakfast), is haunting.

I am writing with people talking all round me
so — on a broken box — my seat being the hub of
a wheel — rest of wheel and cart smashed up
somewhere.

Willson stood a dozen of us a dinner yesterday
evening : first meal with a tablecloth since I
came down here.

I look like being permanently attached to the
cookhouse and I shan't mind if I am, the work
is feverishly hard for nearly eight hours a day
and fairly hard for another five, but it is interest-
ing and unquestionably useful and the cook and
his mates are exempt from " Guard " and several
other minor worries.

We have to do all our cooking in the factory
yard used by the transport men for their carts
and waggons. There are two lean-to shelters in
it — just roofs with supports under which we try
to work if it rains extra hard, but they are a poor
shelter and the trench fire is of course in the
open.

This is absolutely Active Service here. *' War

Station " on the orders, and save that we aren't

under fire, or likely to be, in every respect similar

to Active work at the Front.

Send me no more tobacco unless I ask for it.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 39

Some of these boys have had half hundred weights
sent them and can't get through them.

Days' Hat Factory,

St. Albans,
r Nov. 23rd.

Dearest,

We are still here — about 500 of us out of
18,000, as far as I can gather, only 12 R.A.M.C.
6th F.A. out of 800 any way. Whether we are to
follow the others later or whether they will all be
marching back in a few hours remains to be seen.
I fancy the latter. Any way w^e are preparing a
late meal for them (our own Field Ambulance
not the whole division of course).

I am freezing (writing out of doors of course)
will move over to the stove — (moved) — but it's
very smoky now I'm here. It's windy to-day
and the smoke is deadly.

It was a great hour this morning getting break-
fast with the waggons being loaded all over the
yard. They've never chosen quite that hour
before. I had to push a horse out of the way
every time I wanted a rasher of bacon to fry.

It was drizzling and very dark too, but it has
since turned out a very fair sort of day. On the
whole we really can't complain of the weather
for second half of November. I wish Xmas
was past, though, and the days were lengthening.

40 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

People have laughed at the number of references
to the weather in " Eye Witness's " account of
progress at the Front but the weather is a very
important matter to us I can tell you and we watch
every change in it with the greatest concern.

Pause from 4 p.m. Sunday till Noon Monday.

The troops came back suddenly and we were
plunged in the throes of dishing out stew and soup
and spuds and this letter got mislaid in the process.
Nobody knows what the game was yesterday.
The 6th Field only got about 5 miles at the tail
of the whole division then waited a couple of
hours and returned. They had been in full
travelling rig with blankets, waterproof sheeting,
2 days' rations etc. but here we all are again
though the " ready to leave at an hour's notice "
has not been rescinded.

Oh lummy it is cold. The warm half of the
yard is full of thick smoke. You saw it at it's
quietest on a Saturday afternoon after dinner.
I wish you could see it on an average morning
before 3 p.m.

Heaps of love to you both and everybody.
Explain to my boy that I must be away from him
for a while. Willson and I went to the Abbey
last night and there was a dear little choir boy

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 41

just like Vally with such a sweet childish little
voice. I nearly howled.
God bless you sweetheart — keep smiling. Love.

St. Albans, Nov. 29th, 1914.

We are getting if possible busier and busier.
A Brigade Order arriving last night fairly late
involved getting breakfast for all troops at 7.30
instead of 7.45 and 8 (two batches) which meant
up before 5 and out in the rain (it was pouring)
by 5.30 all the wood sopping : the fire trench half
full of water and the carts and w^aggons being
loaded and got out all over the shop.

We are being sorted into jobs. I fancy I shall
stay on cooking. This is good because it is as
useful a job as is going and one that demands
conscientious hard work still it does not involve
going into the actual firing line — a thing I have no
ambition to do. Stray shell fire and epidemics
are all I want to face thank you, let those who
like the firing line have all the bullets they
want.

Talking of epidemics we are suffering from an
epidemic of minor misfortunes. Willson the
healthy has got a sort of boil on his leg which I
dress for him nightly. Lion and Fisher have got
bad feet — very bad feet. Roff (you don't know
him but he is of the decumvirate) started flu

42 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

but thought better of it — Galton the Scot has
started acute pains in his inside — on the site of
an old operation. Many others have bad feet or
festering fingers and I have got an inflamed eye
— a sort of pimple under the lid which exudes
matter occasionally — also I have sliced my thumb
beside the nail. Eye and thumb both mend-
ing though. Willson dresses the latter nightly :
curious how people pal up under these conditions
I don't believe he and I have been fifty yards
apart since we came down here except on last
Saturday when you came down.

The Bag is a thing of such beauty that it was
very wise of you to mark it for me. So much
" lifting " goes on.

I think I'll try to phone you to-night — it's
so long since I got a word with you and my
blessing.

Two daj'S later. Sunday.

I resume. I was so glad to catch you on the
'phone night before last. I had had an awful
fatiguing, and depressing day and was reduced
to an acute state of blues which your voice
effectively dispelled. Yesterday again was a
soaker. We were hard at it all day cooking
not only for ourselves (214) but a batch of A.S.C.
and St. John's Ambulance men who are quartered

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 43

upon us. I was wet to the skin by 8 a.m. and
remained so till after tea was served and the
" dixies " returned at about six o'clock. I don't
feel much the worse for it to-day though.

Love — they are waiting for me to strain 84
pints of tea.

To his little Son*

Same date.

Vally darling do send your Doody a letter. I
haven't a moment or I would write you long ones.
I get up in the morning in a hurry and start
cooking and by the time I have finished it is
bedtime again.

You are to come and see me again next Sunday
unless I come down to see you in the nice new
house.

I hope you are well and good and all that sort
of thing and I do hope my sweetheart you think
a lot about your old Doody who loves you most
awfully even if he has to go away from you when
he doesn't want to.

Be very good to Dear Mummy and tell her I
love her, and give her a big hug for me and please
please write to me and send me a big lock of your
hair — not a short one but one right off near your
head, see ?

Your Doody.

44 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

To his Wife.

St. Albans, Dec. 6th, 1914.

I am most awfully sorry. It's a shame you
should be worried. I should have answered your
poor dear letter sooner. I tried to but I didn't
know what to say. We have had two pouring
wet days and I have been wet to the skin day
and night — ^but still quite healthy — and awfully
worried about you. As a matter of fact I suppose
I should never have joined but stayed at home and
worked but it's too late now, I've done it — I
ought to have thought more of what it would
mean to you to be left as I have left you.

God bless you my dear one.

To his Wife.

St. Albans, Dec. 6th, 1914.

Dearest,

Please thank Lai very much for the paper.
It is more a present to the corps than to me : we
are the most perfect Communists imaginable —
we call it " borrowing " of course — in all minor
matters such as paper, matches, etc. Two-
thirds of it has gone already and that won't last
long — don't bother to send me any more, though.
We can get all we want of the Y.M.C.A. paper

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 45

at any time and though of course / like using
good paper I don't see the idea of supplying the
whole army.

I very much regret to say that we shall probably
not get away this side of Christmas. It's rotten
because Xmas at the front would be an endurable
necessity but Xmas here only a few miles from
Home would be deadly. Unless things change
very much we should not be able to get leave
either, that is not more than 10 per cent, of us
as we are supposed to be in a state of " hours'
notice " preparedness to depart for anywhere.
As I told you over the 'phone French's despatch
supplies the explanation of our activities for the
past month. He appears to have not feared, but
at any rate realized the possibility that the
Germans might break across the Yser in which
case the 2nd London T. Division and all other
available reinforcements would have been bustled
across to defend Calais, or Calais being taken we
should have been hustled to the South and East
coasts to defend England. The fact that no
extra reinforcements were sent across shows how
certainly the enemy was thrown back and how
surely we are going to beat him in our own time.
The favourite principle of Joffre never to use his
reserves until driven to do so by an undeniable
emergency is a very wise one.

46 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

We are having filthy weather, raining and very
windy. I am writing in the shelter of a derelict
Am. cart wearing the jersey you sent me, a new
cardigan just issued by the Authorities, and
Mater's Cardigan.

St. Albans, Dec. 8th, 1914.

My Sweetheart,

Thanks most awfully for your very sweet
letter. I never thought you were reproaching
me for joining — what I was not so sure of was
whether I ought to reproach myself.

You talk of Fate not helping — I wish you could
see some of the poor devils down here, we are
really among the lucky ones.

I have just had a new pair of boots issued to me
by an affectionate Quartermaster because my
old ones burst. New ones are I hope going to
last better. You remember what mighty looking
things the old ones were — they are splitting all
across the sole and the seams are gaping. I
have also had a share of a gift of woollen goods —
two pairs sox, two cholera belts, and a stocking
cap also they have issued me a new cardigan so
they are doing their best for us.

When I think of Germans landing in England
I wish I were not in a non-combatant corps —
my taste runs in the direction of Maxim Guns

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 47

then— but then only. The rest of the time I am
quite content to " let others shoot."

For one month now I have been up every morn-
ing before 5.30 and out of the house before 6. I
have seen the Sun rise over the red roofs

Must finish.

Don't send me any damned press notices I
don't want 'em. Love to Joan and a hug to my
precious — so glad he is having Cod Liver He
Emulsion.

St. Albans, Dec. loth, 1914-

Hope to get a pass. If I do shall be home about
3.30 or 4. May be disappointed at the absolute
last moment — the passes are not issued till 2 p.m.
Saturday and until then there is the possibility
of their being rescinded. So be prepared for dis-
appointment.

Don't I beg of you have beef, mutton, or bacon
for any meal and if we are going to Talbot Road
communicate this edict to your Mother.

So glad you like the picture — so do I.

God bless you all and love to ye.

St. Albans, Dec. i6tb, 1914.

Dearest,

Thanks very much for the rock cakes, they
were a great success.

48 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Thanks also for the washed things.

All's well with me — one day very like another
you know except for deviations from the ideal
in weather. We have had two beautiful days
yesterday and to-day, the Sun rising through
clouds and pouring rain but getting the better
of them about eight or nine o'clock.

I have made friends with Day's engineer who
now allows me to keep my spare clothes (overcoat
woollens and overalls) in his engine room over
night. I thus come down at 5.30 or 5.45 get
pretty wet by breakfast, retire to the Engine
Room after Breakfast and emerge in dry overcoat
jersey and overalls leaving my home-going over-
coat and jersey to be dried by evening. The
effect on my rheumatism — which had become
rather bad, is most beneficial.

Love to my boy and his Mummy.

To his Son.

St. Albans, Dec. 21st, 1914.

My Darling,

This is your birthday ! The day I'm writing
on I mean, of course you won't get the letter till
to-morrow so what you will have to say is
" yesterday was my Birthday and Doody wrote
on the evening of my Birthday."

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 49

I'm not sending you any present for your Birth-
day because I can't afford to send two presents
in one week. I am sending you a present for
Xmas instead.

I am coming home to see you again soon and
we'll have an awfully good time together. We
might go to the Zoo together if I can get Sunday
tickets.

Good night my little boy — I'm very tired and
I've got to shave and have a good wash before
I go to bed on the floor next to your friend Ex
Corkoral Willson on one side of me and with
Galton and Fisher (you have met Fisher but not
Galton — he is a Scotchman and likes whiskey
hot before going to sleep) — with Galton and
Fisher kicking me on the other side.

God bless you my dearest little man. Please
please be very good to dear Mummy and your
newest Nanny and please please don't ever spit.
I should hate to hear that you had been spitting
when I come back.

Your Dgody.

To his Mother-in-Law.

St. Albans, Dec. 22nd.
Thanks very much for the chairs ; they really
are a most sensible idea — there are so few things
which we can enjoy — something to sit on in the

D

50 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

evening other than the floor or a sugar box is a
treat.

I hear that straw mattresses are to be issued to
us soon, personally I am quite used to sleeping
on the boards and except that I roll out of my
blankets occasionally and have to wake up and
re-roll myself I sleep quite well now.

Everything points to our remaining here several
weeks longer. Our C. Section was brought back
from the East Coast last night, less i6 men left
behind in Hospital, so we — the Sixth Field Am-
bulance — are all in one place again. C. Section
have left their cook behind in hospital. Willson
and I made the tea and warmed them up stew
and looked after them for two weary hours after
our usual time to get away. Our usual day is a
twelve hour one, so we were a little too tired.
Last night or rather this morning we slept till five
minutes to six instead of our usual five o'clock.
Consequence : breakfast late for 250 men — and
one soldier kept waiting for his breakfast is bad
enough.

Have you ever tasted a " cobbler's goose ? "
I'll cook you one when I come back.

Love to you.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 51

To his Wife.

St. Albans, Dec. 24th, 1914.

Thanks for your two letters of last night and
this morning. I do hope you will have a happy
Christmas. I am sending my blessed a cheap
present but you nothing but my love.

We are all over work — our balance of C. arrived
on Tuesday and added their appetites to our
burden. Christmas too means unlimited labour
for the Cooks.

Sweetheart — if you want to send me the best
Christmas imaginable it would be a promise of
three long letters a week with news at length.
You don't know what an intense pleasure it is
to hear all about you and my blossom and all that
you do. From Sunday till Wednesday night I
had not one letter and I can't tell you how de-
pressed I got — of course I know posts were slow
and you must have written quite soon after getting
home from seeing me in your estimate of things.
I'm not so silly as to blame you for not realizing
the almost unrealizable pleasure that we under
these conditions take in news from home.

God bless and keep you my sweet.

52 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

St. Albans, Dec. 26th, 1914.

Dearest,

We have had a terrific Xmas . . . tremen-
dous work and plenty of fun. Went to Midnight
Service on Xmas Eve (special leave being granted
from II P.M. to 2 A.M. to those wanting to go,
and of course I was after anything going). I
know you will forgive me for not writing more
often. We have really been up to our necks in
work — and an allarum warned us as likely to
occur on Boxing Day ... we were all packed
up and ready — and indeed one battalion was
entrained and another paraded for entrainment
before the " warning " was withdrawn to us of
the 6th Field Ambulance. Perhaps you won't
understand this : it means that the fighting
section of the brigade — the battalions — (which
of course move off ahead of us) were not only
warned but ordered — in other words we were all
ordered but our order was countermanded before
taking effect. Hard luck on the Battalions wasn't
it ? The 2ist had to march 12 J miles and back
for nothing, having been roused at 4 in the morn-
ing to begin with. That is the advantage of
belonging to a unit that travels by " train no. 57 "
as we do, instead of one of the first units to
go out.

I'm going to turn in. God bless you and my

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 53

baby — do write soon and at length. I know posts
are responsible for it but I haven't had a letter
since the one containing the photos — for which
many thanks — now four days ago and I am longing
for one.
Bless you ! Bless you 1

St. Albans, Dec. 29th, 1914.

You shouldn't have bought me a Kodak dear.
You are quite right in thinking I wanted one,
but I am really much more anxious that you
should have if not enough then at least all that
comes in.

It's very nice about " When the Lights are Low "
' — I only hope something comes of it — or of
" Dumb and the Blind " or "Art and Op. " or
something.

I am not complaining about letters dear one —
I am only reminding you how much I value yours.

We (some eight of us) have been turned out of
our Billet and put into a garret about half a mile
further from the Headquarters. We (Willson
and I) were fetched to move our things at 3.30
to-day and in less than 20 minutes had everything
packed and in a cart bound for the new Billet.
Twenty more minutes and we were on our way
back to the Kitchen Yard to make the tea down.
We have a great evening ahead of us separating

54 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

our kits which naturally were crowded into each
other's bags most promiscuous-like. The removal
of Lion's million quilts was a great joy to all
concerned and Willet's leaps to and fro as he
rescued his beloved belt from muddy boots and
other bad company were almost painful in their
frequency.

We had a heavy snow storm in the night and
found the trench full of snow this morning.
Breakfast was late, but not very. Love.

To his Mother-in-Law.

St. Albans, Dec. 30th.

Thanks very much for the Blankets — the result
of their distribution around the room last night
was that we overslept ourselves and Wilson and
I woke at 5.45 instead of 5 as usual. Breakfast
was in consequence late and the Orderly Officer
for the day — an infant of about 19 fresh from the
O.T.C. — whose duty it is to see that everything
in the nature of meals is as it should be — tried
to make himself objectionable and was easily
suppressed by his underlings — most of whom are
old enough and wise enough to be his Father.

I am putting in for leave either this week end
or next but with the best intention in the world
they can't grant us passes freely as long as we
constitute, as we do now, the first line of defence.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 55

When I say " we " I mean the Third Army of
which the Second London Division (Territorial)
is a part. The 2nd London Division consists of
the 4th, 5th, and 6th Brigades. We the 6th Field
Ambulance are attached to the 6th Brigade.

We have been shifted from the room you saw
to the attics of an empty house some ten minutes
further from Head Quarters. It is a gloomy
hole — lit by one oil lamp, very damp and draughty.
The wall by my head is wet to the touch, and
the ceiling below our floor shows large damp spots.
The fireplace is a little old-fashioned abomination
which smokes when it is fine and spits steam when
it rains. Of course we have waterproof sheets to
sleep on and Linden's blankets being added to
our store we now have 3 apiece instead of the 2
issued by the Quartermaster. I am remarkably
well and gaining in weight daily, only complaint
an inclination to rheumaticy pains in my feet and
shins, and stiff knees when I start out in the
morning.

God bless you all.

P.S. You don't pray for the War to cease alone.
There are heaps of married men here — or engaged
ones who, like me, would greet the declaration
of Peace to-morrow morning as — well words don't
express it. But we're not anxious for anything
but a definite Peace with us on top.

56 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

St. Albans, Jan. ist, 1915-

We leave here next Thursday for Hatfield under
present arrangements. I am not sorry as any
change from present Cook-house must be an
improvement unless they expect us to cook at
the bottom of the sea or on the edge of a glacier.
All our C. Section (my section) are back from
Braintree now and very nice fellows most of them
are and extremely friendly and well disposed.

I have put in for a week end pass as soon as
possible. I am not entitled to one tUl Sunday
after next but there's no harm in asking in good
time. If I do by some fluke get one this week
end I shall arrive same time as before but don't
expect me. I shall have no means of letting you
know. Passes are issued at the stroke of 2 and
date from 2. Until issued it is no use counting
upon them.

Weather abominable. Sleet and snow changing
at Sunrise to rain, Xmas day and yesterday
were fine the greater part of the day. All other
days filthy.

Love to all, my little boy and his Mummy.

St. Albans, Jan. 4th, 1915.

I am in the Wars. WUlson is in Hospital with
a sore throat and a temperature and our A.S.C.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 57

fifth hand in the Cookhouse has been demanded
for various parades these last two days, conse-
quently my usual heavy share of work in the
Cook's shop has increased by 2 fifths — indeed
by far more as those left with me are not such
good workers as Willson and Pongo 3. (We call
all the A.S.C. assistants in the cook's yard Pongo
and give them numbers to distinguish between
them. The reason is this. Any new helper in the
cookhouse used to be automatically addressed by
Jack as " Georgie " until such a time as his name
revealed itself but the first A.S.C. helper happened
to be really named George — or Georgie — so
Willson and I decided to call " Pongo " all future
A.S.C. men George being too likely to come out
right. I hope you understand ? You play
Patience.

I have just come back from taking Willson up
his holdall etc. He looks very nice in a little
white bed, attired in a spotless white nighty over
which he wears a red flannel bed jacket — as do
all the other patients. The Hospital is awfully
jolly and comfy. He is in an eight bed ward with
chrysanthemums and lilies in vases all over the
place against a plain green backing. It is a large
private house converted for the occasion I believe.

Love to my blesseds (plural).

58 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

St. Albans, Jan. 8th, 1915.

Sweetheart, Willson is back in the Cookhouse.
He has had a perfectly gorgeous three days in
Hospital and I am most envious.

The C. Section Commander Major Bird is a
great sport and we are taking to him very
kindly. He is an old Naval Surgeon which is some

recommendation isn't it ? , though still a

pest (I use the word carefully — he is a pest, like an
extra Summer-full of wasps) is an efficient hustler
and things have moved some since his return.

We have not departed for Hatfield. Some-
thing is afoot — I dunno what : possibly a sudden
departure for Egypt or France or Germany or
possibly an invasion of our own shores — or a review
by the general officers commanding the Division.

Love to you all. Please send the camera by post.

St. Albans, Jan. nth, 1915.

Dearest,

Sorry I never posted you a word yesterday.
I had a most appalling hump and on re-reading
my letter I found it breathed such an air of de-
jection that I tore it up. I had had a rotten
day — not tiring, just depressing. Two of the
Cookhouse staff away on passes reduced us to
four, one of those off for the afternoon and another
(Corporal Shaw, ex-messenger-clerk to Jesse

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 59

Smith's) called off at 20 minutes notice to a fresh
job (water duty) nine miles away left us after the
dixies were cleaned a very small band of fire-
watchers in the rain. Only Willson and myself.
Willson went below (to the Y.M.C.A.) to write
letters just leaving me in the falling rain and the
fading light from 3.30 to 4.30 alone. I chopped
a little wood, made myself a cup of cocoa in a
dirty mug, made the fires up again, chopped some
more wood, made the fires up agam and all the
time the rain drizzled and rattled on the roof of
the little damp shelter and the light grew less
and less and I waxed bumpier and umpier till
when Willson relieved me and I went below to
write my letters I felt awful.

Things go on much as usual. We are to come
out of the Cookhouse for a little exercise in a few
days. We can do with some good marches —
and we shan't know ourselves getting up at six
instead of five and finishing work at three or four
o'clock every day. Of course we shall return to
the kitchen but the principle of an occasional
week of ordinary duties is a good one.

I can't make head or tail of my pay, last week
it was 3/- the week before that 4/- the five weeks
before that 10/6 each week and the week before
those 2/6. You will let me know at once if your
Sep allowance isn't right won't you ?

6o WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

I wrote my son a snorter as you requested me.
It really wasn't easy I do love him so and I could
just see him looking pleased at getting a letter
from Doody and then disappointed at its contents.
Kiss him for me.

Love.

To his Son.

St. Albans, Jan. nth, 1915.

My dear Little Boy,

Mummy writes to me that you have been
throwing the fire irons at her and spitting again.
I am so sorry to hear this, because it's not the sort
of thing a nice little boy would do if he stopped
to think and remembered that his Doody was
away from home and he — the nice little boy —
was the only man in the house.

Of course I know that you arc a very nice little
boy so I suppose you forgot just that once, but
please do remember in future that spitting and
throwing things is wrong and if you do it often
you will not be a nice little boy any more. Please
WTite to me and promise to try not to do it again
and if you do it again in spite of trying not to
please write and tell me yourself so that I can
know whether my little boy at home is really a
nice little boy still, or whether he is slowly getting
nasty and spitty and bad tempered.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 6i

Here's a picture for you of me and some

of my friends here. Please give my love to

Emma and Firstie and write me a nice letter

soon.

Your loving

DOODY.

To his Wife.

St. Albans, Jan. 12th, 1915.

Sweetheart, the camera arrived quite uninjured.
Thanks. The sleeves are a success beyond my
wildest dreams — how very well you have finished
them. I have tightened the hand end of each
by tying a knot in the elastic and they now fit
perfectly, one end tight about the wrist, the other
over the tunic entirely protecting my coat sleeves
shirt sleeves and cardigan sleeves from damp
and grease.

I love your description of Vallie reading in bed.
Your last two or three letters have been most
cheering — not at all depressing as you feared.
The depressing earlier ones of course had to be
written, too. I don't want you to only write
when you are cheerful. Be a philosopher and
make up your mind to stick it and keep smiling.
It pays really.

I think the chief reason for my hump is not hard
to find. This Corps has been here five months
now waiting and waiting and grumbling more and

62 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

more the longer it had to wait till now it is in a
very serious state of general hump — and to be
among a lot of people who are half of them nursing
grievances is rather depressing when one has
quite enough to be humpy about without listening
to others' imaginary grievances. I am convinced
that the moment we move off we shall be right
as can be but at present the collective view seems
to be that Kitchener is a fraud, that our CO.
(Commanding Officer) is an incompetent weakling
in the hands of our S.M. — a malignant villain of
the worst type bent on arresting everybody, our
officers utterly worthless as soldiers and positively
dangerous as doctors, our N.C.O.'s given over to
favouritism, open to bribery, tyrannical etc. and
our unfortunate Quartermaster and all that with
him bide, are making huge fortunes by depriving
the men of their fair allowance of mustard.

My own view is that the CO. is a courteous,
rather faddy, gentleman suffering from the same
inaction that oppresses the men ; the S.M. an
over-worked but intensely human man with the
bump of authority a little over-developed by
Military life, the Officers good doctors but as
soldiers various, the N.C.O.'s remarkably fine-
especially the sergeants. There is one earnest
exception but he is ludicrous rather than dis-
agreeable so long as you keep your eye on him

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 63

and give him no chances. He is magnified by the
dissatisfied into an ogre whom several dozen are
going to injure seriously as soon as we get into
action. I don't quite know how. I suggested
that they were going to do him to death with
roller bandages but a bloodthirsty youth assures
me that there are plenty of other weapons to be
found on the battlefield so I expect to see him
blown from a derelict 75 gun or German I3 incher.
Lots of love.

To his Son.

St. Albans, Jan. 13th, 1915.

My dearest Little Boy, how are you ? I'm
quite well — only just a little lonely sometimes
when I want to see my Vally and his Mummy.
I want you please to come down on Sunday and
bring your Mummy with you. You will have to
bring some money though because / shan't have
enough to buy you both lunch and tea and I
suppose you'll want them, won't you ?

I still get up hours before you do in the morn-
ing, only now that the middle of Winter is past,
the mornings are getting lighter and by the time
we have breakfast ready it is quite light ! It's
much nicer because now we can see what we have
cooked before giving it to the other soldiers to
eat, and if by chance we have put the bacon into

64 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

the tea and fried the sugar, well, we can change
them over in time to avoid trouble.

Will you please tell mummy that Doody may
be off to France almost any time now and never
to be surprised to hear that I'm off. Nobody,
nobody, nobody knows anything about when we
are going or where we are going, and nobody,
nobody, nobody knows where anybody else is
going or when, but somebody else goes every now
and then and they go to all sorts of surprising
places. You remember Berneval ? Well some
of them have gone there — or to a place just like
it, and some of them have gone to the sea-side
like Margaret's Bay where hundreds of soldiers
are watching for ships from Germany, and
hundreds of other soldiers are digging trenches —
long holes in the ground to hide in when the
Germans come so's to be able to jump out at
them when they don't expect it — and sometimes
the soldiers who are watching for the ships from
Germany are so busy watching that they forget
to get out of the way of the others who are digging
trenches, and the others, who are digging trenches,
are so busy digging that they don't notice those
who are watching for the ships from Germany,
and they dig the trenches right under the soldiers
who are watching, and the soldiers stop watching
suddenly, and fall into the trenches on top of the

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 65

ones who are digging and they all get horribly
mixed up with the picks and the buckets and the
shovels and then soldiers like your Doody have to
come along — soldiers with red crosses on their
sleeves you know — and they have to sort out the
broken shovels and the wounded soldiers who used
to be looking out for ships from Germany and the
other soldiers who used to be digging. They have
to sort them all out and patch them up and carry
them about on stretchers like this until they

are well enough to go on digging trenches to hide
in or watching for ships from Germany.

Heaps of love to your Mummy and your
newest Nanny — you might distribute a few kisses
wherever you think they will be appreciated
among your Aunties and Gram and all the
rest of the ladies at home but to every man you
meet I want you to say WHERE IS YOUR
UNIFORM ? — unless of course he's got one on.

E

66 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

St. Albans, Jan. 14th, 1915.

Dearest little Boy.

I've only time to write you a very short
letter to-night. We are going to have a very
long day to-morrow starting long before you will
be awake — and reading this. We shall have to
get up not much after the middle of the night
and your own particular Doody does not like
shaving in the dark.
This is the way I shall look at 6 o'clock. My

That's my overcoat
rolled up.

Thai's my mess tin.

That's my water
bottle.

Thai long black thing
right round me
is my waterproof
sheet.

Haversack is on the other side of me where you
can't see it in this picture.

You know it takes an awful lot of work to make
yourself look like that. Your overcoat has to
be rolled up in that squashed rolly-poly shape for

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 67

one thing. Of course I can't do that alone. The
Scot, Galton and the man called Lion will, I hope,
help me to fold mine and kneel on it while I strap
it up tight and then I shall have to help them to
fold theirs and kneel on theirs while they strap
them up tight, and then we shall all have to help
each other put the rolled up coats on to each
other's shoulders and hook 'em round under each
other's armpits on to each other's belts, and then
the waterproof sheets have to be wuv in and out
over and under everything.

The funny thing is we really look quite nice
when we've finished with each other and then — ■

Oh then !

Then the CO. stands us all up in line like this

ffitiiiiiilfiii

and the band plays and he walks all along the line
and looks at us and says under his breath " Oh
my ! Oh my ! What lovely bright buttons,
what be-youtiful white belts." Of course you
can't hear him saying this, but if he finds any one
whose buttons are not bright — then you can hear
him alright and he sounds so upset about it that
everybody wants to cry — especially the man
who'se got the unpolished buttons. And then we
march miles and miles and get thoroughly muddy

68 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

and at last the Major says " eyes right," and we
all turn our eyes to the right and there's a nice
little General and we all march past him, with
our band playing like billyoh 1 and then he goes
home and writes to our CO. and says we are the
most bestest men he ever saw and the CO, tells
us about the letter and, we say (under our breath
this time) " Yes, I don't think, papa."

And that's an inspection.

Love to your dear Mummy and your sweet
little turn up nose, bless it.

Your DooDY.

To his Wife.

Calypso dear — I've wasted all my spare time
writing this tosh to Vallie. It's not interesting
to a grown up I'm afraid. Please I'll write you
to-morrow.

Very good luck.

St. Albans, Jan. 15th, 1915.
We've had a great day to-day — reviewed by the
General (Sir Ian Hamilton) commanding the 3rd
Army, and outshone the 4th and 5th Field Am-
bulances to our entire satisfaction. We have no
official assurance that we outshone them, but we
know that if the General had eyes in his head

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 69

we must have done so. Our Transport is in-
finitely better than theirs and I believe we are
better marchers — also (possibly the marching is
thanks to it) we have the best Band in the
Territorial London Division. Our Transport is
really very fine. All new this month, too.

Come down later in the week than Monday if
you like, but I'd rather you didn't leave it too
late. This is a hot bed of rumours of course,
but everything points to our going away some
day.

I do love you so.

St. Albans, Jan. 17th, 1915,
We are full of rumours of departure to Hatfield
where the 5th now are. Hatfield is nothing like
such a comfortable town for troops as St. Albans
is but if we are sent there we may take it as a
compliment. You see the three brigades of the
2nd Division are at Hatfield, Watford, and St.
Albans but the Divisional H.Q. (Head Quarters)
are in St. Albans which is nominally where the
whole Division is, Hatfield and Watford being, in
a military sense, suburbs. As far as can be
gathered we — the 6th — came out rather strong
at the Inspection held by Sir Ian Hamilton and
the 5th came off rather badly, result being that
they are to be brought to St. Albans to be more

70 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

nearly under the Official Eye and we, as efficient
enough to look after ourselves are sent to Hatfield
to take their places.

Scabies has broken out down here. Three
cases in the 6th — one in the Cook House. He
came around to say farewell before going to
London to the isolation Hospital but we drove him
off with harsh words and logs of firewood which he
considered ridiculous behaviour seeing he had
" only got the itch."

I personally have since washed all the clothes
I have got and had various baths as have many
others in the 6th.

Rumour hath it that we are forming still
another reserve.

Love.

Hatfield, Jan. 20th, 1915.
Fearfully uncomfortable, hungry and tired.
Kits lost. Love to you all.

Hatfield, Jan. 23rd, 191 5.

Dearest,

Quite well — ^but oh this God forsaken hole 1
You never saw such a filth spot.

I have quit the Cook House and got a job as
Hospital Orderly. Serjeant King who is " Nursing
Duties" having asked for me. A great bit of

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 71

luck. The Hospital as a Hospital is pretty poor
(it is the station waiting room, the orderly rooms
being the rooms off it) but as a billet it is the only
dry place in the town apparently and, until it fills
up (we have 3 patients and 8 beds to date), we
orderlies sleep in the beds. No sheets of course,
but still beds.

You are not hideous — you are sweetly pretty —
if the Cinema makes you look hideous that is only
another proof what a failure it is.

I love the bits about Vallie in your letters.
More please. Hope for leave to-morrow week.

Heaps of love my dear one.

Hatfield, Jan. 24th, 1915.
I like my new job, though like every other job
which the Army can offer I shall be very glad to
leave it. In this filthy slum it is certainly a catch.
It gives me a chair to sit on and a fire to sit by
in my quieter moments, which only those of the
other Military gents here who have the money
to take a room in a cottage for their evenings can
manage. There are about a score of pubs here,
and not one fit to go into : uncomfortable, and
rotten beer. One of them is certainly more comfy
than the rest but it so swarms with Serjeants that
it is not ideal for mere Privates. Not that the
Serjeants are standoffish or official out of hours,

72 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

but they are of the " drinks round again " variety
of mortals, whom— though admiring— I cannot
cope with.

I think if " Art and Opp " is done in America
and things look up I shall ask you to send me
down something every week. More than half—
and the nicer " more than half "—of the corps all
are getting something a week from outside sources
and really the Army food needs reinforcing to the
extent of about a bob a day by tea somewhere
and a Welsh rarebit or something before turning
in. Of course I won't take a penny from home
until things are better, but I feel pretty confident
that they are going to be in a few weeks now.

I am putting in for a pass for next weekend. I
may not get it however as the Serjeant Ward
Master wants to go up that day and I am becoming
rather indispensable in the ward when he's not
about. You would be surprised at the courage
I am developing. I knocked off in the middle of
this letter to shave a patient ! And did it too
without cutting him ! I bunged a hot fomenta-
tion on a man's eye

Here's a man come in with temperature 101-2.
We've got to get him to bed with a hot drink —
there's a perfect epidemic of influenza.

Good night -must make bed for him.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 73

Jan. 27th, 1915.

DucKSOME Boy,

My latest job is this

and this

God bless you my dear boy: do write to

me.

74 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Hatfield, Jan. 27th, 1915.

We are sitting under most thrilling circum-
stances with every window covered and all
exterior lights extinguished. Zeps are reported
in the neighbourhood. Willson and I went for a
walk in the pitch dark village this evening, and
while I was buying the enclosed hanky for my
ducksome, a policeman called on the shopkeeper
to make him put out even the last feeble lights
he had in his window. It is a definite order
"lights out from 5 p.m. till further orders."
Added to it of course are idiotic rumours. Bombs
on London are the most reasonable report. An
Army landed from aircraft somewhere on the
flatter bits of England. This follows a special
personal inspection by the General so it's been an
exciting day. I didn't parade for the inspection
but the A.D.M.S. bustled over in a car and in-
spected my Hospital while I was in sole possession,
my Sergeant Ward Master and my brother orderly
both having been ordered to parade.

I call it my hospital because — no swank — I
have done a very large amount of the organising
of it. Not the silly " Army Form B seventy-
two " organising that drives the Sergeant mad
but— well I have organised the food supply which
was only prevented from breaking down the day
I arrived by the fact that it didn't exist. I took

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 75

it upon myself to do a tour of many addresses
I had found on a piece of paper pasted to a ward-
robe which the 5th Field Ambulance used when
here. I guessed that the addresses must be of
some sort of benefactor — at least potential. It
turned out that they were good ladies who had
been in the habit of supplying puddings on fixed
days — milky puddings. I called on them — or
their cooks and arranged for the supply to be
resumed for us — the 6th. I then found a farm
and ordered milk and arranged with the cook —
my old boss — in his new Cook House to supply
beef tea, taking back with me to the Hospital all
the gravy from the Sergeants stew with which I
fed my starving patients. The milk business
has got me into hot water with the Quarter
Master who says I should have left him to indent
■ — or whatever the Tomfool process is — for the
milk. However in the Corps it is almost a crime
not to be in hot water with the Quarter Master.
He is a most unpopular man.

I don't want to swank really — don't laugh —
but the Sergeant Major, whose Orderly room is
part of the Hospital, has twice invited me in there
to partake of whiskey with him and the second
time kept me sitting over the fire chewing
reminiscences till past midnight — two hours
after " lights out." Sergeant Stadden is greatly

76 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

impressed, the S.M. being a most correct man.
Of course there is nothing against the S.M. fore-
gathering and drinking in private with the ranks
if he likes — if he thinks it wise, that is. A Com-
missioned Officer should not, a Warrant Officer
may if he likes, but, as a rule, the Sergeant Major
is the most unapproachable soul in the unit. His
position is so difficult : head of the Sergeants
Mess, he is, in this case, the most experienced
Medical in the Corps. He has had 27 years of it.

I have been called up six times in the last page
and a quarter to empty bottles etc. Forgive
incoherence. The best of the S.M. unbending so
to me is that he is such an interesting old chap —
(not so old either 45 to 50 at most). He has seen
life and death enough to stock a dozen men's
memories and he tells it uncommon well too.

I must get these blighters their supper. Did
I tell you we were enjoying an epidemic of flu ?
Every bed full, I'm back on the floor after two
days of beautiful bed-rest.

Oh dear — I must stop. I'd love to write a
dozen pages about things — it is all so interesting.

Hatfield, Jan. 28th, 1915.

Dearest,

If possible I should like to see something
very cheerful on Saturday night if (it's only an if
provisional) I get my pass.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST ^^

Rushed to death — love to my dear ones all.
Keep an eye on Mater now she's near you.

Hatfield, Feb. 3rd, 1915.

I've gone back to the ranks with a vengeance —
I wanted a few marches and, my hat, I've got 'em !
We've done 50 tough miles in 3 days. Rather
rough on me to return to the ranks just in time
for so much foot slogging isn't it ? I hadn't
done a good day's march for eleven weeks. You
can imagine I was stiff after the first day out —
22 miles we did. Another review by the way,
the result of which as officially announced was
that " General Codrington was very pleased
with the marching of the 2nd London Division
and especially of the 6th Field Ambulance which
unit he considered the best turned out and
equiped etc." He omitted to mention me by
name but I have pointed out to the authorities
that I was there.

I have been transferred to a swell billet — very
comfortable.

Must clean up.

Much love.

Hatfield, Feb. 5th, 1915.
My Dearest,

Things are much more comfortable now.

Got into a nice billet, 6 of us in two empty rooms

78 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

opening off each other — good fireplace and
windows. I have also — with 4 others — taken a
front room in a cottage, furnished, wherein we can
write letters — wash — talk and get our teas in
privacy. The danger is that others may find
out our " Club " and take to calling. It's a great
comfort at present. Also I have found a little
baker's shop where I can get a good breakfast for
6d. in the charming company of Mrs. Baker and
her daughter, when breakfasting in the Mess
becomes unendurable — as it frequently does.
The ten shillings has been a Godsend— really one
needs a little over and above the net pay if one is
to be comfortable. The food supplied is so un-
appetising and monotonous, besides not always
going quite round in an eatable state.

Though I am in the stretcher bearers sub-
division — and doing the very difficult " extended
order " drill with them — I have been attached to
the nursing section for lectures on dispensing
medicine etc. — so I look like remaining always with
the Tents either as cook (the Sergeant Cook wants
me back as soon as I'll come to him) or Nurse.

Hullo 9 o'clock ! Must clean up. Love.

The gloves are excellent.

You've heard me speak of Tailor of the Trans-
port ? I saw him mounting to drive the water

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 79

cart back to the Transport lines this afternoon.
I have just heard that the horses bolted with
him and threw him — the water cart passing over
his leg. He is alright but for a crushed foot.
A lucky escape. The Water cart is tremendously
heavy — the horses extra high and hefty and it is
•" ride-driven " from the saddle — v/hich means a
long fall right under the wheel.

Hatfield, Feb. 8th, 1915,
I'm quite willing to write, but I find it in-
creasingly difficult. This life is so monotonous
and all privacy so unknown that letter writing
is a disappearing art. I think I told you that
Lion, Roffe, Capell, Willet and myself have rented
a sitting room in a house here wherein we have
our tea and make ourselves fairly comfortable
but even here there are generally four of us in the
evening — sometimes plus a couple of visitors and
conversation is generally going on — just at present
there is none — but Roffe is mending an allarum
clock.

Keep me well posted concerning Vallie won't
you ? I am not unduly worried about him —
you and Joan with your dozen odd certificates
between you ought to be a match for his bronchy —
but I might worry if I did not hear.
We --the 6th — continue to receive compliments

8o WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

from the Authorities. Colonel Burt the D.M.S.
says our Hospital is clean and Codrington says
we march well, and Sir Ian Hamilton has said we
were not so dusty — and certain sneering gentle-
men in khaki in St. Albans meeting some of us
there on Sunday said : — " Hullo here come some
of the smart sixth." So we seem to be getting
known.

I am at work — a line a day about — on a one
act play for the 6th Field Ambulance which
would also be useful for the Halls.

Things seem to be going tremendously well,
don't they ? I expect we shall finish the war
up this Autumn easily now. . . . What Germany
will have to say to the Kaiser is a question. I
suppose you know that we shall probably be on
Garrison duty for a couple of months after the
War. If we do we shall have a perfectly scrump-
tious time of it — those of us who are looking after
Belgium and France — and if I'm one of them
somebody'U have to find the money for you and
Vallie to come out and stay with me. If we are
in Germany the temper of the people will be a
consideration. I doubt if — outside Prussia —
they'll give much trouble.

Oh — can you get me any good book on the
systems of weighing and measuring in Pharmacy ?
Doctor Beer can tell you of one for a cert — only

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 8i

I don't want an elaborate one I have no time to
read it. Just a text book of the weights and
measures both here and on the Continent etc.
Ring Beer up and ask him— give him my very
kindest at the same time.
Love to you all.

We are hard at work on the extended order
drill most mornings. It is not easy.

To his Son.

Hatfield, Feb. 8th, 1915.

My Own Blossom

I'm writing this from Hatfield. We've
just been to church all together marching along,
with the Band playing in front, and marching
back and now I am back in my billet, all alone :
Fisher and Galton and the man called Lion are all
away on leave and Corkerel Willson is in the cook
house still. He won't come out of it though we
all beg him to.

I'm sorry so to hear you have got a cough.
I hope it is getting better every minute. Coughs
are a nuisance, aren't they ? especially when
they wake you up in the night. Mummy says
in her letter — the one that you wrote some of —
that you are being very good and I'm so glad to
hear it. Especially when you're not very well

F

82 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

you must be good and kind to poor Mummy
who probably worries about you more than she
needs to. You see we both want you to be
always well and strong, so that you can grow
and grow and be such a fine big man one of
these days.

Does Mummy tell you how we are getting on
with the War ? / think everything is going
awfully well. The Germans have done another
very silly thing. They have said they are going
to blow up all the ships that try to come to
England. This is just as silly as it can be because,
for one thing, it's wrong to blow up ships and if
they do they'll get into trouble with more people
even than they are in trouble with now, and
everybody will go for them, and for another thing
they can't blow up one quarter of the ships they
say they will, so they are pretending that they
will do things they can't — which makes them look
ridiculous and — well it's as if you were to lose
your temper and say that you were going to
throw Mummy out of the window. You couldn't
and it would be wrong if you could. Well the
Germans are being told now how silly and wicked
they have been and I think they'll be sorry one of
these days. We have sunk a lot of the ships they
sent to sink ours.

Please give my love to dear Mummy and tell

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 83

her I'll write tomorrow, also tell her I'm getting
on very comfortably now. I am going to have
tea with the people who own the house I'm
billeted in — awfully nice people — and this morning
I went and had breakfast with a little baker and
his wife in the little kitchen back of his little shop-
Everybody is very nice to your Doody once he
gets the chance to tell them what a nice little
boy he's got and what a nice Mummy that little
boy's got.

Be very good and give Mummy a special kiss
from me.

Your Doody.

To his Wife.

Don't send anything more except the trousers.
I'll take back the Putties and stockings next time
I am home on leave. The white trousers I mean.
I sleep in them.

Hatfield continues to improve on acquaintance.

Feb. 9th, 1915.

The weather is improving daily — a gorgeous
march into Hertford to-day through lovely
country. 7 miles there 7 back — an ideal day's
" work." Such days are our holidays and we
love them.

84 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

I have been over to St. Albans again last night
for a bath. None in Hatfield — fancy a ten mile
walk for a bath and that after the day's
work !

Heaps of love to you all. Things seem to be
going awfully well don't they ?

Hatfield, Feb. 12th, 1915.

Sweetheart,

We have had a long, tiring, but very in-
teresting day. We marched off soon after seven
and joined on to the Division at the Gate of
Gorlambury Park, following it into the Park and
taking up our allotted position on the valley side.
It was a gorgeous day and the four or five square
miles of opposite valley-side, wonderfully visible
were dotted over with the troops ; artillery,
A.S.C. trains, and the 4th and 5th Ambulances.
Behind us were several Battalions — each 1000
men in 16 platoons (I believe) and so large was the
open space and so clear the day that they looked
exactly like toy soldiers set out on a green carpet.
We pushed our waggons about a bit, changed
positions once or twice and then bearer sections
were drawn from amongst us to follow the
battalions and I — left behind in a skeleton
Tent Section — after watching them trail away,
miles of them literally (a whole Division is 16

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 85

miles long in column of route extended). We
Tent Sections sketched out our site — operating,
hospital, store tents etc — and then tacking our-
selves onto our Transport train which had been
performing similar theoretic acts, we marched
back to Hatfield arriving here at 5.30. The
bearer divisions returned an hour later.

The most curious thing about these operations
is their exact similarity to actual warfare in this
at least : that the individual unless he be a Staff
Officer of high rank, cannot make head or tail of
the whole business, and is sorely tempted to regard
it as the most colossal muddle, which of course
it isn't.

The amount of aimless wandering and waiting
demanded of the individual (officer as well as
private) is, of course, tremendous and, to the
less intelligent, quite incomprehensible. Some
men seem to think they are brought out
solely to teach them personally their work
and not as part of a unit which is again part
of a division which is being taught its work
as a whole.

It's not unlike rehearsing a colossal production
over a stage extending over Watford, St. Albans
and Hatfield (I don't know how many miles of
country) with a cast of about 18,000 performers,
2,000 horses, and innumerable props, in the

86 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

form of tents waggons and guns and gun
carriages.

You should see our horses. I doubt if any
regular division can beat us either in heavy
draught horses or in Officers mounts. The
Yeomanry are wonderfully mounted, and the
pack horses of the battalions splendid animals.
The remount Officer happens to have been till a
few weeks — perhaps a month — ago transport
Officer to the 6th Field Ambulance, so of course
he consorts considerably with our own Officers
and we see a lot of him. He always rides the
last word in blood mares and has a batman
(Military parlance for a groom- valet) in attendance
with another equally perfect. Of course it's
swank but it looks jolly well and his side about his
knowledge of horses is quite lovable.

I must to bed. Thanks very much for your
very nice letter. You shall have a P.C. or letter
every blessed day I can manage it. Seriously
though have I ever kept you " five or six days
without a letter ? " Sunday till Thursday is the
longest I can remember.

I don't believe in the people who have " candidly
admitted " etc. We all grumble — and we shall
all be jolly glad when it's over but we are all most
capable of cheering up- on the least excuse such
as a fine day or something interesting to do. It's

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 87

the quite unavoidable hanging about — or fatigue
duties — in rotten weather that takes the heart out
of us.
Love — I must to bed.

To his Son.

Dear Vallie,

I want a farm with

Feb. 14th.

gk and

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

and

To his Wife,

Hatfield, Feb. 17th, 1915.
Lai has thrown the whole 6th into a state
of stupefaction by wiring me " Good luck " on
my birthday. The wire reached me after many
redirections from Orderly Room, Mess, Guard, and
I believe the CO. himself. I do wish people
wouldn't do these things. I am popular, con-
sequently the chaff is not ill natured but it is —
and will be for some days at least — excessive to
such a degree that I am avoiding my usual haunts
during my few off moments. The chaff I say, is
excessive but not universal. Some of the simpler

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 89

souls are now convinced that I am at least a
Millionaire. One — a driver of a C.P. van in civil
life remembers a publican he knew in his youth
who would send telegrams about all sorts of
things. " Just like sending a post card ! "

Also — apart from making me look a fool — it
frightened me out of my wits.

We have shifted hospital — been on the job all
day — from the Station up to the servants quarters
over the great stables of Hatfield. Beastly
quarters worse even than the Station. No
general ward — a double row of cubicles with
doors — you can guess how that doubles work.
Moreover the genial comfort of a cosy ward— a
very pleasant thing where only slight cases are
treated — is exchanged for a lot of isolated patients
on either side of a corridor. The common room
off the corridor wherein the out-of-bed patients
and ourselves (the Orderlies) eat and live is also
a most cheerless dirty white washed room without
a comfortable seat in it. We have seven in-
patients tonight — one poisoned foot, one (poor
old Driver Green) in a state of collapse after ten
teeth having been extracted, one suffering from
some nose, throat, and ear affection, one acute
diarrhoea and sickness, one undiagnosed rash,
one flu, one boil compared with which the biggest
boil I have hitherto seen is a pimple. The poor

90 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

little chap who supports this colossus nearly
faints when it is pressed.

Our out-cases are more interesting. One in
particular, a finger which looked a week ago quite
unlike a human finger, rapidly regaining its shape
seems almost a miracle.

I am alone in charge tonight. The Sergeant is
not sleeping in hospital at all this week so they
must think me fairly competent. I am now
getting bread and milk suppers for the patients.

Love to my duckysome and yourself.

Hatfield, Feb. i8th, 1915.

Opportunities to write are now greatly
diminished : 7.50, and I am just finished for the
day — finished more or less, that is. I am still
liable to be called — even as I write behold one
calleth.

Dixon is a jolly decent sort. He had tea with
us here to-day and cursed his, and our, luck
in being stuck here in a most beautiful Irish
accent. He assures me that it is no advantage
to be an officer ; rather the reverse. Caldicott — •
a queer, dry, irritable, but very pleasant fellow
who was third of the tea party — is convinced that
the war is going to last years and years and that
we — the 6th — will not be disbanded for years
after its all over.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 91

We had an awfully interesting operation
yesterday.
Oh help !

Hatfield, Feb. 22nd, 1915.

Dearest,

I am so miserable about Monday — and
about to-day too — I have been trying to write to
you all day and here it is nine o'clock suppers
to get for 4 patients and I'm just starting.
Hospital work is one long interruption.

We have got a most infernal business ahead of
us tomorrow. Up at 5 at the latest, breakfast
at 6.30, and march away for the concentration
at 6.45. We at the Hospital have to leave our
Wards etc. in order, and see the relief section in
before leaving. Hence the 5 o'clock awakening.

I have been feeling terrible all day. An
absolute attack of the horrors came on me in the
night — a sort of nightmare that hung about after
I was well awake. It was all I could do to prevent
myself waking the other Orderly for company.
There were devils all round me. Quite seriously
I believe that pus and poisoned wounds if thought
about — or looked at continuously — breed some
sort of horror in the mind. If only wounds — the
little wounds we get here — would be what one
expects wounds to be instead of festering and

92 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

swelling, I should not fear my capacity for dealing
with the more terrible ones at the front, but these
give me such a curious feeling after the day's work
is over, that I wonder how I shall feel in six
months time. The curious thing is that I can
dress the nastiest and discuss the nastiest and
think about the nastiest of our little nastinesses
without the slightest feeling, but in the night
(towards the end of my last spell as Hospital
Orderly and again last night) I get the horrors.

I do hope Vallie says " God bless Doody ! " at
night. I felt last night it might do me a bit of
good.

Love.

Hatfield, Feb. 25th, 1915.

We had a jolly day to-day erecting tents against
time and measuring out ground. The encamp-
ment looks very pretty when completed.

Oh Hell — more arrivals ! Very noisy. Love.

To his Mother.

Hatfield, Feb. 26th, 19 15.

Dearest Mater

Dont apologise for " neglecting me " for a
few days when at the end of them you send me two
closely written giant pages. This letter of yours

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 93

is just the sort of letter I like. If you only write
to me once a week a good long newsy letter I
shall be a lot better pleased than I should be with
seven scrappy ones.

Why " cant " type ? Lesser brains than

his have mastered that difficult art. Typing
one's own work is a most valuable last glance over
it in print form. People who are superior to the
appearance in print of their paragraphs are as
hopeless in literature as the people who are
superior to mere audibleness on the stage.

My news is I have done my second week

as Hospital Orderly (We do one in three). A
fearful field day covering 30 miles and lasting
(without a meal) from 6.45 a.m. till 8.25 p.m.
The last four hours in soaking rain through which
we (a small detached band of Stretcher Bearers—-
not the whole 6th) marched the ten miles home at a
pace which left the shorter legged several paces
in the rear, until a staff-officer overtaking us
blew the Lieutenant in charge of us up severely.
The Lieutenant in question had been previously
thrown from his horse and was covered with
mud. We had to march down a road — a bad
side lane really — along which all the Artillery
of the Division had preceded us. It was a muddy
road at best and flooded in places. You can only
faintly imagine the foot deep surface of clay we

94 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

had to splash through for over a mile. Every
footstep flung mud higher than our waists. — Some
times higher than our heads. It was a creamy
job. The whole day — wet and muddy and tiring,
(we were in full marching order all the time) was
most fascinating though. It ended by the
stretcher bearers, of whom I was one being
marched straight into the sergeant's mess and
there served with dinner (rabbit stew) and a
glass each of the sergeants' beer, the Sergeant
Major himself presiding and forcibly preventing
any of the over weariest of us from turning from
the food and slipping off to his billet and turning
in unfed, and the rest of the Sergeants acting as
waiters and bar keepers. I believe our little
party did as hard a day's work, as has been done
in this part of the country, and not one fell out.
Of course it was an accident that landed such a
task upon us. We should have either gone to
the concentration point by train as the Battalion
did or returned from St. Albans by train and motor
as the rest of the Field Ambulance did, but —
true to the conditions of actual warfare — (by
chance) — we went out as a Field Ambulance
Stretcher hearers sub division and returned as
auxiliary stretcher bearers to a battalion of infantry,
a change of character which may easily occur in a
real engagement if the S.B. sub div. follows the

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 95

Batt. reserves until they become supports and
still further until they become first line and the
rest of the Field Amb. being threatened or other-
wise compelled to move off, the communications
between S. B.s and Tent sub divisions are
broken.

You are all wrong about Russia. She knows
her game. The conditions in the East are
absolutely unsuited to the digging in policy we
have followed in the West. Trenching in East
Prussia and Northern Poland would cost more
men every week from pneumonia, frost-bite and
possibly drowning — than even a retreat like this
last one, Russia has ample money — more than
all the rest of Europe is the general belief. Make
up your mind to this : a retreat means nothing
unless it is an entire line that is withdra^vn or
unless the retreat leaves one end of the line " in
the air " and within striking distance of the
enemy. Retirements here or there in a line may
lead to something but they are in themselves
nothing but evasions of blows ; sometimes at a
cost in men and guns ; but that cost is generally
about equal to the losses inflicted upon the
attacker who fails to bring his blow home.
Russia is being attacked much more vehemently
than the Allies in the West are, and the greater
swaying backwards and forwards of her line is

96 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

very like the dodging and " footwork " of a clever
boxer when his opponent tries to " finish him
quickly."

Must wash.

Heaps of love,

To his Wife.

Hatfield, Feb. 26th, 1915.

Dearest.

Of all the dismal fates, I have been made
Orderly Room Orderly. No more marching !
And just while this lovely weather is coming
along. I don't mind being Hospital Orderly
because the work is intensely interesting, although
tiring ; and also it is only for one week in three *
but Orderly Room work is eternal — chiefly
clerical, relieved only by spells of housemaid's
work and running errands. It is nervous work
too. Lighting the C.O.'s fire and sweeping and
dusting his room is alright, but tidying up his
papers gives me the shudders. They all look so
wildly official and important.

I am typing this on the S.M.'s typewriter — an
Oliver, I don't think I am doing so badly with it,
do you ? I am not going at all slow, and it is
the first time I have tried it.

I stand no chance at all of a pass this week end

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 97

after my special of last Wednesday, but I shall
make out one for next week end. One does these
things for oneself in the Orderly Room. Oh, I
tell you it's we that's the rogues. I thought the
kitchen was the one true abode of cheatery with
the Q.M.'s stores as a sort of home from home, but
we in the Orderly Room are the great rogues.

My brothers in crime, are Sergeant Treadwell
a big-boned six-footer dark moustached (Inter-
ruption — " Chap in, op it and get your tea " —
I obeyed immediately. One of the humours of
Military life is the way you have to jump to your
opportunities before they fade, I spent an hour
and a half over the tea — to continue) — dark
moustached and rather sinister looking, really a
practical joker and most easy going. Corporal
Sulivan a little fair man who was through the
S. African War, He looks about 28 but is really
nearer forty-eight. He is our Postman and is a
postal clerk in private life. These are the N.C.O.'s
Treadwell as Orderly Room Sergeant and Sulivan
as Corporal. They both know their business
backwards but are bad hands at imparting its
intricacies to a new comer, being very inarticulate
on technical matters. The S.M. of course spends
most of his time in the Orderly Room and the
C.O.'s room is adjoining. My fellow Orderlies
are Trotman, whom you know, a tall boy, only

G

98 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

nineteen, name of Corby good natured and an
excellent clerk, and Chattin also tall and a
linguist — German and French like a dozen natives
having lived in those parts in his youth.
Good-night — Love to my boy.

Hatfield, March ist, 1915.

I do believe there is some sort of a cherub sitting
up aloft looking after me. You know how
absolutely sick I was at being put into the Orderly
Room. I can't exaggerate how I hate the work.
Absolutely no exercise — and in this lovely weather
being penned up all day.

(Broken off to type " Fieldstate ")

Well — the CO. has just returned suffering from
the accumulated energies of five days absence
and struck an idea. Each Section is to do the
departmental work for a week commencing
Monday (to-morrow) with A Section, so — unless
the horrified Sergeants can dissuade him — I
return to the ranks to-morrow after four days of
the beastly place. I'm in C.

Monday.

It's happened ! A is doing it all. Hospital,
Guard Room. Orderly Room. Cook House.
Quarter-Master's Stores. Fatigues, for one week.
B. starts next week ditto then C. Whether I

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 99

shall be bagged for Hospital, Cook House or
Orderly Room remains to be seen.

We had a jolly day to-day pitching tents for a
couple of hours with a pleasant march out to
selected site and back. Weather blowy and a
shower or two but on the whole excellent.

I shall be at liberty to rehearse from 10 till
12.30 Thursday. Dentist at i. Shall not ask for
afternoon pass. S.M. away and his substitutes —
though good souls — too inclined to refuse any
unusual requests in a halting " can't you wait till
the S.M. comes back " sort of way. They daren't
do anything out of the routine.

I want you and the Treasure to come down this
Saturday or Sunday or some day next week.
Love to the Nipper.

Hatfield, March 2nd, 1915.

How do you like the Dardanelles touch ? And
Russia's retirement ending in a strategically
stronger front for her and a very much worse
supplied front for Germany ? If I am not very
much mistaken, NOVEMBER will see the end
of it. I am willing to bet on it. The Dardanelles
must make a tremendous impression on Greece
and the Balkan States and Italy : and that counts
for a lot. I am tremendously pleased over the
whole situation — including the German blockade

100 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

failing to account for even one ship per day on the
first ten days.

We had a great day to-day. Each man cooked
his own dinner in the field : plenty of time allowed
us to do so — a regular picnic.

The Imperial Service Units have been altered
in nomenclature by Army Order to ist Line, so
your husband is now in a First Line Unit serving
in a First Line Division. The alteration is only
in name. We have been really first line all along,
but it's pleasant to be called ist Line troops which
has a definite meaning instead of a fancy name
like Imperial Service which sounds like Optimists
and United Arts and other abominations.
Lights out.

Hatfield, March 8th, I9i5f
We are very busy. Issues of underwear, etc.
going on fast. I was on packing stores all after-
noon. There is a ten o'clock parade to-night for
those who have not yet got various non-essentials.
Rumour says that we move off during the week.
God bless you my darlings.

Hatfield, March gth, 1915.
Rumours of departure " by the galore " as
Jack expresses it, I really think we shall be
moving off in the course of this week or at the

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST loi

latest next. I don't quite know how we shall let
our folks know when we are really off. I will
try to send a wire, but — for obvious reasons, we
may be prevented. We shall probably sail from
Avonmouth which means St. Nazare or Havre
and some base in Western France. It's a long
way round from Avonmouth, but safer than the
Channel. Some of the Division are moving off
to-day or to-morrow.

I am not going to suggest you and Vallie coming
down. It would be a trying business for you.
We never know when we shall be wanted to draw
stores etc. Some men have had their wives down
and been lucky enough to get off. Others have
jigged about on parade or tinkered about with
stores while their womenfolk stood on street
corners and waited for them. I don't want none
of that, thank you.

No leave now. Poor devils who were to have
gone when I returned try to tell me how much
they hate me but words are not equal to it.

Hatfield, March loth, 1915.
We did a parade in full going away order this
morning. It is tremendously heavy. I scale
13 stone 9 pounds in it without my 5 lbs. of iron
rations (emergency food) so I shall march weighing
fourteen stone ! They don't expect more than

102 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

15 miles out of us at that, though, as an absolute
limiti

Nobody knows where we are going to. Dixon
gave us a most impassioned lecture on morals
to-day, in which he said France. That seems
quite certain anyway.

We spend an awful lot of time waiting for
orders it is very tedious. If I were sure of being
here to receive you I'd ask you to come down
to-morrow but I'm not. Some of the ba4:talion
moved off at two hours' notice last night.

Don't worry too much about me when I get out.
The Club except for Willson are going tea-total
en masse. Also I'm not a kid, I've been inocu-
lated recently — and I'm not afraid of infection in
the least.

Heaps of love Dear. Will write again to-
morrow unless I've departed.

Hatfield Still.
We haven't departed yet, dearest, but we are
certainly off in the course of the next week or ten
days. New boots, pants, " jumpers " (a sort
of undershirt with short sleeves and low neck),
body belts, have been issued all round. Also the
various minor impedimenta that are usually so
hard to get out of the Quarter Master's Stores
can be had for the asking. " Puttees ? " V Take

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 103

some ! "■ " Straps ? " " Over there ! " But for
the fact that we have had to hand over all surplus
kits and clothes, the more acquisitive of us would
be making museums. Everything spare has been
taken from us. We are to go out with what we can
carry on our own backs and shoulders and no
more. We may wear as much as we like in the
way of underwear — one tunic, one pair trousers,
one pair puttees, one pair boots, one cap. Then
on our back we carry our " pack " : great coat
folded with socks, spare shirt, spare pants in it.
Across our shoulders our blanket and waterproof
sheet. On our L. our Haversack containing hold
all (razor etc.) towel, soap and rations (5 lbs.) on
our R. our waterbottle.

I want at once the best photo of you with the
eyes showing and one of Vallie with the Teddy
Bear, looking at me. You know the picture.
Also will you please go — or send Joan — to Gamages
for the biggest Haversack they sell ? It needn't
be an expensive one, just a large strong canvas one.
I will pay for it out of kit allowance which I shall
draw when we go. Also please send me my money
belt.

Please send them at once we may be off at an
hour's notice any time. That is why I do not
suggest that you should come down. It would
be too awful if you turned up just after I had gone,

104 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

wouldn't it ? We had four days together. 75
per cent, of the men haven't had their leave at alL
I was told in the Orderly Room to-day that three
hours' notice would be about what we should
probably get and no time therein to send wires.

Yes it is certainly France — any way at first.

Bless you —heaps of love.

Hatfield, March nth, 19 15.

We are not off yet — delays in rest of Division
suggest we shall not move before next week so
will you come down Saturday any time you like ?
If we do move off I will wire.

I do so want to see you. Fearful hump. Love.

Hatfield, March 12th, 19 15.

I'd love you to give me a wave — I'm so glad you
want to. The Devil of it is that we — all Military
Units — move off secretly, and unexpectedly. We
know we are going and soon but how soon nobody
knows — it may be in a couple of hours' time —it
may not be until the middle of next week — or the
end. The Captain of the A.S.C. unit which was
attached to us had his wife sta3dng with him in
St. Albans and Mr. Day met her and told her he'd
gone one day. She wouldn't believe it but he had.
Then a few days later he came back !

You come along and have an afternoon with me

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 105

to-morrow (Saturday) — I'd like to see Vallie too
if you can bring him and Joan too. They are all
invited to the Club to tea. Come as soon after
I as you please and wire me what train you are
coming by and we will discuss how you are to see
me off. It may be workable.

Heaps of love.

Oh — dress just as smart as you know how
compatible with travelling, and ditto Joan and
Vallie, The Club must be paralysed.

March 15th, 191 5.

We are sitting 8 in a compartment in our train
waiting to get into Southampton. Have been
waiting over an hour and the Engine Driver on a
train beside us tells us he has to get in and out
before we can. The line is very congested. Good
thing I didn't try to let you know our route — we
haven't followed it a bit — been all round London
to get here. Acton nearest point.

We paraded at 3 a.m. this morning breakfasted
at once and paraded in going away order at 4.
Transport waggons harnessed and us arranged and
counted by 5 when we marched to St. Albans
where we are :

March 15th, 1915.

We are now penned in a shed — 2.20 — pre-
paratory to embarking. It is one of those huge

io6 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

sheds you must know at docks — over loo yards
long by 50 odd broad — not unlike a skating rink.
Two thirds of the floor space is covered with men
lying at length or reclining on one arm, their
coats over them their arms, caps, belts etc by their
side. We have just been invited to make our-
selves comfy — mustn't leave shed. There is a
buffet in one corner I'm going to have some tea.
I wish you could see this half acre of worn Khaki
in the dusty half light. It's a picture worth a lot
and it's so amazing it should be alive and real.

LETTERS FROM FRANCE.

To his Wife.

France, March i8th, 1915.

Here we are in France — journey not finished
yet. We had an ideal crossing — and a most
amazing one. I believe every square yard of the
Channel has its own British T.B. Destroyer —
queer black shapes with rectangular outlines,
hard and well drawn against the dark sky or the
streams of light from more distant warships.
I never saw one in detail with the light upon it —
always in silhouette against the light. We
steamed with lights out nearly all the way. I
slept on deck — not over warm — but I kept getting
up to see the latest sight as one or other called me
and so kept warm.

We are fed on Bully Beef (ordinary Fray
Bentos, you know the brand) and lovely hard
biscuits which I adore. Last night I added to my
menu a bloater and some bread and marmalade,
" duff " and coffee — having scraped an acquaint-
ance with some of the engine room artificers who

107

io8 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

invited me to sup in the fo'castle. It was very
hot in there but we supped in low neck. Great
fun !

Bye bye — Love to my blessed boy — Try to
read him as much of my letters as he will under-
stand. I do miss him so and I want him to hear
about me all he can so's we shan't be strangers
when we meet next. Rubbish I know, but still
I'm not quite joking. He's growing so fast.

An unfortunate ofhcer has got to read this and a
hundred more letters, so I'll cut it short. Bless
you.

France, March 22nd, 1915.

Dearest.

We took four days to get here, but here
we are at last. " Here " being a little hamlet of
farms, estaminets and shops, with the usual
Mairie and Church, into every barn and spare room
of which we are packed like sardines. It is now
Sunday. We have shifted our billet three times
in the three days we have been here, each change
being for the better until last night we were
comfortable enough not to want to change again.
The weather to-day is excellent. The first day
here — Friday — was a mixture of sunshine, snow
and sleet. It is still very cold at nights.

The journey was most amusing. A Field
Ambulance is uncommonly like a circus in more

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 109

ways than one, and, though the band have packed
their instniments, it still retains its resemblance
to one. I was on duty with a party in the hold
of the ship at the port, sending up the loaded
waggons on the cranes on Tuesday. The number
of clowns running about and pretending to work
was, perhaps excessive but they did it so funnily
that it didn't matter.

From the port we came here by train, travelling
in cattle trucks which, with plenty of straw laid
down, are much more comfortable than ordinary
carriages for a long journey — twenty-two and a
half hours. Don't try to guess from that where
we are because you'll never do it. We wander
all over the map.

Between the night on the boat and the night
on the train, we had a night at a camp half a
dozen miles outside the port. That — Tuesday-
night and last night were the only decent nights'
sleep I have had since I saw you last Saturday.
I feel amazingly fit never the less. Certainly I
am a little sleepy this afternoon and we are all
going to turn in early but, with the rest, I am
feeling as fit as possible. Quite fit in fact.

We are rather drastically treated here : for-
bidden to go into cafes which — as the water is not
to be taken unless boiled and the Army tea is
quite undrinkable — is rather hard. Still we hope

no WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

that the order is only temporary. We went into
cafes up to yesterday — and very nice cafe-au-lait
they give — or gave us too. A surprisingly large
number of us are teetotallers. My Billet of eight
contains six, and the remaining two — of whom I
am one are T.T. for the duration of the War.

We had the good fortune for three days to have
our tea and sugar issued to us dry which enabled
us by obtaining hot water to make our own tea
in our mess tins, but that's over now and the
stewed dixie tea is all we can get. Au reste the
food is excellent when one gets it. We are not yet
established here of course. Still even our worst
spell — about 40 hours without meat — was quite
endurable as we had unlimited biscuits, jam, and
cheese, and were able to get good tea and chocolate
and cakes at a buffet run for soldiers at the station
at the port.

We are much nearer the firing line than I
expected we would be in the first few weeks in
France, but far enough away for the war still to
seem incredibly remote. Some Indian Cavalry
whom we saw almost convinced me it was in
India.

Sergeant Moss, Fisher and myself with Lieut.
Sadler and the R.C. Padre came here in advance
of the rest by some hours to secure billets. It was
most thrilling, setting out in the dark, seeking our

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST iii

way to an unkno\\Ti hamlet by dint of much
knocking up of wayside inhabitants.

Friday I spent billeting with Moss in the
morning and in the afternoon, Fisher and I were
first on duty in a temporary hospital. Saturday
I had to draw stores from the A.S.C. a great
rumour shop. What you can't hear there isn't
worth hearing,

I want now a Walker's Loose Leaf pocket book,
size about this sheet of paper, (I think they're
called Walker's Loose Leaf Diaries but don't
know. The shop in Charing Cross Road next to
the Hippodrome sells them), a small French
dictionary — a copy of " Well made Dress Coat,"
some thin writing paper quarto or foolscap size,
some thin " foreign " note paper and envelopes
(not a great many), and later I shall always be
glad of English matches, bulls eyes, condensed
milk (Ideal), Craven mixture or John Cotton
(medium), also my pocket book.

Heaps of love to my Baby and his dear Mummy
and everyone.

To his Mother-in-law.

France, March 23rd, 1915.
We are having a most amazing time here : the
whole countryside under strictest Martial Law ;

112 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

swarming with troops and supply-trains ; under
hourly expectation of aerial attack in one quarter
or another ; yet orderly, peaceful and apparently
quite unafraid, with us lounging in every farm yard
and by every shady wall, resting after our not
very fatiguing journey here. It is like a pleasant
holiday for the greater part of the day. I don't
suppose it will last long though.

You might buck everybody you know up to
come out and finish this war. It looks like an
everlasting to everlasting business out here.
The French people about here seem quite resigned
to a several years' struggle. It needn't be that,
though, if only England will buck up.

Love to you and Lai. I go on Guard to-night,
so no sleep for me till the next night. I don't
mind.

Sunday, April nth, 1915.

Thanks very much to both of you for the quid.
It will be most useful when next we are in a town
large enough to support a restaurant. I have put
it aside against that happy day.

We were in such a town only last week but under
such conditions that we only left our headquarters
for an hour in two days. At present we are back
in our Monastery, inventing rumours for each
other, and swallowing everything we are told

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 113

about our next move by the sergeants, who are
as great rumour merchants as ourselves.

I am writing in a hurry to catch a 2 p.m. post.
Envelopes were only issued at first parade this
morning and only " green envelope " correspond-
ence is to pass to-day. Most of the time between
first parade and 2 o'clock is not available for
letter writing.

Our chief entertainment here is coffee and
aeroplanes — frequently under fire now.

Love to you all.

To his Wife.

France, March 25th, 1915.

Dearest.

We haven't had much to do since I last
wrote to you. I had charge of a job after your
own heart the day before yesterday, the cleaning
of a stone outhouse and rigging up therein of a
boiler wherein to boil the clothes of scaby patients.
The outhouse had apparently been occupied by
cattle for some years and then — for two winter
months — by Indians and, besides heaps of filth
in the corners and much loose straw, some relicks
of fires and so forth, there was a solid, heavily
trodden stratum of filth, some six inches thick
which had to be dug out before the brick floor

H

114 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

could be reached. Gods ! how it stank ! sour,
putrid, and Oriental by turns. We got it all out
at last, though and the old boiler — which we had
found — rigged up. I had 12 men on the job
and I took them out and stood them coffee after-
wards. They had earned it.

We are allowed into cafes now — at certain
hours — II to 2.30 and 6 to 7.30.

I am just off to meet the post. Hope there is
something for me by it. I'll keep this open in
case.

Post not in yet. I must finish this or I shall
miss the outward bound one. We have had our
third issue of tobacco to-daj^ and yesterday — it
having rained all day and the men being rather
damp — a ration of rum was issued. I had a
whack but never again. It was filthy. Half the
T.T.'s turned out for some ; regarding the first
issue — as I did — as a rite not to be missed. Their
antics afterwards were a study. There's no
denying it warms you. We were all well frozen
waiting for it — but hot coffee is I think a much
pleasanter means to that end. I am drinking
all the cafe au lait I can get. They make it
beautifully about here. Not with heaps of
chicory as at Bernaval.

The cooking is irnproving greatly, the tea for
two days having been really good — but, oh, for

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 115

some milk in it ! The night I was corporal of the
guard, I had milk from the S.M.'s tin.

To his Mother.

France, March 27th, 1915.

Dearest Mater

Your post card and letter received. Of
course you know it is not always possible to write
from here.

We have been in this village a week now, shifting
about a lot, but still not absolutely moving away.
We have founded a temporary Hospital and moved
it again. Fisher and I handled the first case — a
pleurisy one.

We are cut off from all news here. — Latest is
Tuesday morning's announcement of fall of
Przchemysl. We live on rumours. The general
impression is not one of a victorious army — or
indeed an army at all — but rather of a great
industrial district, rather unsuitably housed —
a more or less improved industrial district perhaps.
The impression also soaking into me is that, unless
a miracle occurs, it harbours an industry that will
go on forever. The other side of the German
lines is spoken of by the peasants as if it were
separated by an English channel or a Pyranees
rather than by a destructible barrier of men and
guns. I am not pessimistic, but I do wish England

ii6 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

would buck up. You see no young men here —
not one. The women are doing all those things
the men in England seem to think can't be done
without them ; and doing them well. The farms
are thriving — the threshing, long delayed, is now
being done. Cattle, poultry and rabbits are
everywhere in spite of many losses.

Certainly this usually poor and squalid part
of France looks poorer and squalider than ever,
but in the essentials of livestock it is not greatly
so. I have seen some — to me — very distressing
sights of farm machinery — threshing machines,
seed droppers, ploughs etc., left to rust and ruin,
but not by the smaller peasants, by the more
important folk who departed for safer neighbour-
hoods when the war broke out.

I was corporal of the guard night before last.
The night watches are very strange. The sun
sung down by a crowd of our men half a mile
away in a barn, warbling music hall ditties ; then
a slight shower and a crescent moon crossed by
many clouds, a curious murmuring, gabbling
chant — women with candles, praying to the
Madonna at a shrine near by — then long hours
of silence broken by the occasional whirr of a
motor or motor ambulance — one bearing a case
of " Pottermain Poisoning " so the A.S.C. driver
told me. Towards dawn faint guns in the

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 117

distance — so far off that a loud snore in the guard
room drowned them easily even to me standing
outside. I've no idea where they were. Forty
miles away probably. Still they were real guns
and most impressive therefor.

To his Son.

France, March 30th, 1915.

Hullo Vallie ! I'm in France at the war at
last. How are you ? We are having such a
funny time all sleeping on straw on the floor —
think of that when you get into your little cribble-
cot to-night.

I am sitting writing this on a sack on the ground
with my back against Jack's. You remember
Jack the cook ? In front of me are all the horses
in rows and rows tied to pegs driven into the
ground. They are tied by the head — the way
Modestine used to be — to one peg and by the
hind foot to another peg to prevent them turning
round and kicking each other. They don't like
having their hind foots tied and pull at them and
swear with their ears and top lips. You remember
how your Modestine used to swear with her ears.
They try to kick too, just as she used to do.

There are soldiers all about here all busy shoving
the Germans back and shoving the Germans back

ii8 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

and SHOVING the Germans back, and sooner or
later we shall shove the whole lot of them right
back into Germany over the Rhine — which is a
big river — bigger than the river at Maidenhead —
RIGHT back into Germany and off their feet,
and then we shall sit on their heads severely until
they have had enough, and then the war will be
over, and we shall just have to tidy up and come
home and I shall come home to you my Darling
and the Blessed Mummy and the nice flat at
St. John's Wood, and oh, I do hope it will be soon
because I want to see you and Mummy most
awfully.

Good bye my precious, please give my love to
Gram and tell her I wish I could have some
English Turkey. And please Vallie send every-
body you can out here to help shove, because the
sooner the Germans are shoved over and the more
of us there are to sit on their heads, the sooner I
shall see you all again.

Your DooDY.

To his Wife.

France, March 30th, 191 5.

Dearest

Sorry not to have written yesterday. We
made a move which occupied all day ; my

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 119

beautiful boiler house left behind for the next
comer. We are now housed in a small Monastery
which is also a farm. The whole 6th is in one
building and a devil of a squeeze it is too. All the
men are on the top floor under the roof — a regular
forest of beams. I had just room to be at length
last night and no more. I could touch seven
men without changing my position. We had a
little straw and just our one blanket apiece and
it was too cold to sleep except in snatches. I
found some water in my mess tin hanging by my
head frozen this morning.

The weather is curious, freezing every night and
cold winds but out of the wind and in the sun
it is now (noon) quite warm.

We hope — that is C Section hopes — to push
on soon leaving A as Hospital Section at this, our
base. I don't know if we have any ground for
this hope. It would be very nice. I am sure
we should be more comfortable cut up into
sections under our own section officers.

It's only ten past twelve and I am starving for
my dmner. We had an inane religious service
in the open this morning at 8.40. For some
obscure reason we were sent forth to it without
our greatcoats and standing at ease we nearly
froze in the cutting wind. All the infantry
present wore greatcoated. I suppose it was a

120 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

slip on someone's part. It's a bad principle that
makes two hundred uncomfortable for one man's
error.

Oh ! I'm hungry. You can send me some cake
or chocolate as soon and as often as you like, if
I am going to feel like this long. I can smell the
stew cooking and I fancy there are onions and
carrots in it. Hope I get a LARGE helping.

Heaps of love to you. The rest is for my
ducksome.

France, April ist, 1915.

I started a letter yesterday — before the arrival
of the long letter and the parcel and, being inter-
rupted to help unload a cart waggon (let's be
accurate) I put it in my pocket. It was greatly
injured at the treatment. I enclose a copy
because I want to rub it in as written and because
the original is almost unreadable.

Here beginneth : —

" Dearest.

I am sitting by the gate watching for the
supply waggon which will also bring the letters.
I do hope you have written to me "

Copy ceases. It's getting too affecting. Really
dear, though, I do wish you would write to me
every other day at least and arrange with Mater

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 121

to write on the intervening days. A letter makes
the most amazing difference to my state of mind.
When I get no letter I am a downtrodden worm
put upon by my superiors and hated by my
inferiors. When I get a nice long letter I'm it.

I'm writing lightly but it's curiously true. The
psychology of a Lance Corporal on Active Service
is a wonderful thing.

Things are going on very well now. They even
issue us matches and the papers are given out
quite regularly.

Concerning grumbles — I am bound to do a
certain amount. We are awfully subject to fits of
depression all of us — and to anyone with a hump
many of the minor ills of active service are very
galling because of their resemblance to unnecessary
impositions — Jack calls it their unstandupagainst-
ableness. When you have a hump, an officer,
who loses his way and has to ask it of passers by,
becomes an incompetent idiot who will probably
lead you straight into the German lines the first
time you go out. When you feel cheerful — that
is to say when letters have been arriving freely —
it is merely a link between men and officers to
find that the latter are fallable. Someone else with
a hump is reproved for lack of charitableness, if
he says anything such as j^ou yourself were saying
yesterday.

122 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

It's an up and down business, but oh ! the Hump
of yesterday ! I beheve I even hated Willet.

The Bishop of London paid us a visit on Monday
and gave a very good address. I Hke the old
chap. It was a curious service — several battalions
sent such men as could come — the R.F.A. and
Engineers were there and some others. We
formed a square— in the centre was a transport
waggon the far side of the square was our band.
We led off with a few words from the Bishop.
London sent us its love (Bless it). Then a hymn.
Then a Liturgy from the Russian slightly adapted
— excellent and went very well indeed.

" Master, Lord God, Father Almighty and
Adorable, meet it is and right to bless Thee, to
glorify Thee, and to offer Thee with a contrite
heart these our humble supplications."

Good beginning, isn't it ? And then : —

" And for those also, O Lord, the humble
beasts, who with us bear the burden and heat of
the day and whose guileless lives are offered for
the wellbeing of their countries, we supplicate Thy
great tenderness of heart for Thou, Lord, shaft
save both man and beast, and great is Thy loving
kindness, O Master, Saviour of the World."

Isn't that nice ? After that a sermon of sorts —
another hymn, " God speed you all " said his
Grace and we went back to work.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 123

I have found — in an outhouse we were cleaning
to serve as a store — under a foot of stale straw a
little blue gray box that looked familiar — and on
it in gold letters was Taylor, Sauchiehall Street,
Glasgow ! The shop where you bought me my
amethyst set !

The parcel arrived quite safely. Nothing in
the letter was superfluous, the Dictionary is
perfect —

And I love you very much.

To Ms Mother.

April 2nd, 1915.

Dearest Mater

We have now settled down (to settle down
on active service only means that the necessary
arrangements for a stay are made). We " settled

down " last week in and cleared out a few

days later. We have now settled down in a
Monastery in a village in a mining-cum-arable
sort of country. It is very like some parts of
Durham in appearance. We have given the old
place the first scrub for — I should say — several
centuries and have turned it into a hospital,
barracks, stables, with officers, men, and patients
all under one roof — rather a crush.

Aeroplanes are every day — almost every hour —

124 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

occurrences, and bombs are dropped here and
there about the country in general in charming
profusion. They seem to do amazingly slight
damage — especially to the military (either men or
works). The civil population suffer slightly but
apparently no more than does the London public
from traffic and fires.

We can hear the guns nightly, — when the
troops keep quiet. They cheer me up enormously.
• — dispel the feeling that there's no progress being
made. " Surely a noise that can be heard all
those miles away must do some good " ses L I
want to get the damned war over and get home
to certain people — our mutual acquaintances —
and to work. I'm sick of being out of it at home
without being really in it out here. Still I suppose
we are some use. — We must be or they wouldn't
pay us and feed us — feed us very well too as army
food goes. It gets monotonous at the best. My
chief objection is the The-a-la-chloride-of-lime. I
am longing for a good cup of tea again. The
chloride of lime in ours comes from the water-
carts. In theory it sterilizes the water and then
settles, leaving no perceptible flavour. In prac-
tice, it may sterilize the water all right, but it
resolutely declines to altogether settle. Sufficient
remaining in solution to flavour tea very strongly.
The water drunk cold is quite inoffensive. Our

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 125

water cart men may find out a few wrinkles soon
which they are not yet up to. At present they
are erring on the side of hygiene, — which is quite
satisfactory in this land of cess-pools, latrines and
mud, now rapidly dessicating and drying into
very fine and — I am sure— very buggy dust.
I prefer buggy to germinous, don't you ? Dixon
— who is delightfully Irish — simplified the whole
micro-organic world into " the bugs get in through
the cut and etc," — and it has stuck. He — Dixon
— is now a very energetic Quartermaster. Some
Quartermaster, I tells yer. If any other unit can
be robbed to feed the 6th Field Ambulance I'll
back him to rob it. And if any other unit is out
to rob us — as of course they are — in this highly
adaptable army — he'll scotch 'em if any one can.
Of course war hath her victories and the other side
— the other unit — must come off best sometimes,
(Aeroplane over head.)
The funny thing is we never mention or think
of the gentlemen the other side of the firing line.
Supplying them with shells per rapid transit ;
watching them, shifting them here and being
shifted by them there ; is just our industry, our
occupation. Our enemies are the fellows in the
next barrack room who pinch our straw, the
5th Field Ambulance who dare to consider them-
selves our equals. The sergeants' mess is our

126 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

mortal foe three days a week and our sworn ally
the other three (I am assuming a dies non occasion-
ally). We make war upon certain cliques — ■
(Anglice Clicks) and against certain cafes where
they wont give more than 50 centimes for a
ed. bit.
That's us. We're a rum lot.
Must finish

Love.

To his Wife.

Good Friday.

I am very proud of the fact that I have managed
to write five letters in the last seven days. Con-
ditions are rather against letter writing at the
best out here. Any way you won't get one now
for three or four days, as we are off on a journey
somewhere, leaving here tomorrow morning so
don't worry if you don't hear from me for the
best part of a week.

Journeys — our journeys — are always by round
about routes to keep the main roads clear for the
movements of motors etc and the main rails clear
for the hasty movement of troops. We — (moving
up more or less at our own time to depots) have
to keep out of the way. It must be one of the
most responsible tasks in modern war ; keeping

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 127

roads and rails free from obstruction. The whole
2nd London Division looks huge as you see it
scattered over the countryside : one battalion in
this village, another in that, artillery here,
engineers there, but it is only one of some thou-
sands (if the French official report is true, which
of course it is) other such units all quartered
in the northern half of France. Imagine all of
them left to go their own way to their next
position. Imagine their huge supply trains and
convoys of sick and wounded, each taking the
road it thought best ! I've seen the supply
train for one Brigade (i/3rd of a Division) get off
its course for ten minutes and the muddle that
ensued and I'm impressed. Goethe saw the
German and Exiled-Noble Army in a muddle and
his description is very striking — it is of an army
equal to about two divisions, modern, without motors
or heavy guns.

I can't keep your letters and I feel there's
something in one I have left unanswered. Always
repeat unanswered questions — will you Dear ?

The coinage hereabouts is amazing, not only
British and French and Belgian with occasionally
Swiss and Italian but also Indian quarter annas
called " sous Indiens," English two shilling pieces
called " pieces de quarante-huit sous." Halfpence
are just " sous." When we get into Germany I

128 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

wonder if we shall drag the curious currency with
us and mix it in turn with the pfennigs and marks.
It's quite likely.

I feel very hopeful about getting things over
soon now.

Post

A lovely long letter from you. Thank you
Darling. You've no idea how it cheers me. My
Blessed Vallie — I'm so glad he is being good.

The parcel — fortunately — did not arrive with
the letter. That saves me the trouble of carrying
three tins of milk etc. on the journey tomorrow.
I suppose it will greet me on arrival at our
destination. Mater's friend sent me a whole
pound of John Cotton ! I shall be equipped with
that and Lai's for a couple of months at least. I
smoke more on some jobs than others. Clean-
ing out ancient stables is most expensive in
tobacco.

The 6th Field Ambulance is the Ambulance
of the 6th Brigade. Our Battalions are the
2oth to 24th. I don't know if the censor will
pass this. Still as you ask I will answer and leave
it to him.

I simply must stop.

Heaps of love to you and all and to my Vallie—
Bless him.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 129

France, April loth, igiS'

Dearest,

Absolutely my first opportunity to write
since we left here (a draft of 20 of us) five days
ago. We returned here — the Monastery — last
night and I found your parcel (thanks very much)
3^our long letter (thanks even more — I loved it)
another from >\Iater and one from Mr. Cham.berlain
(of the tobacco) waiting for me.

I have had an amazing Easter : attached to a
regular Field Ambulance (one of the old ones),
half the time at the Main Station (which is also a
French Hospital), the other half at the advance
dressing station, only a few hundred yards behind
the trenches. I have been in our first line
trenches and seen German dead lying out between
our barbed wire and theirs : poor heaps of wet
clothes and mud. They had been there some time
in a place equally inaccessible to either side.

The advanced dressing station was run by men
who have been out here since the beginning ;
reinforced by drafts of ex-R.A.M.C. men from
the Reserve. I was taken for a personally con-
ducted tour of the dug-outs and trenches by a
ginger moustached old sergeant with a D.C.M.
who maintains in a strong Aberdonian accent
that shrapnel is absolutely harmless. I have since

I

130 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

seen three men newly struck by shrapnel and I
disagree with him. On the other hand I have
watched shrapnel bursting for a whole afternoon
over the com-trcnches and fields, across which
reliefs were passing to and from the trenches —
and going up later with stretchers I have heard
No Casualties, and I can't help saying that
shrapnel must be a very expensive way to take
life. A shell burst in the back of the house
wherein the advanced Dressing Station is, a few
days before we arrived there. It smashed into
the kitchen and exploded forward into the front
room — the Officers' Mess. The kitchen happened
to be empty and the officers were, by chance
attending to a case in another room at the time.
That sort of thing happens every day.

Of course I saw and experienced nothing very
hot in the way of either rifle or shell fire — ^just the
trench warfare of everyday of the month. We
should have been in the commodious cellar and
" funk holes " of the station if the shelling had
developed into a serious bombardment. The men
all slept in the cellar. We (five) elected to sleep
above ground in a room next to the sergeants.
Somehow their proximity made us feel that the
danger wasn't so very great. The room was in
the front of the house — the side remote from the
German lines.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 131

Shell fire is spectacular. Rifle fire is curious —
eerie. The Germans " fire by the map," so our
boys say. Their bullets have regular highways
and byeways with a particularly pitted wall or
a house comer converting most of them into blind
alleys at last. I have stood with experienced old
sergeants and men in the shelter of a wall and
watched bullet after bullet hit the same brick in
another wall a few yards away.

Firing by the map makes it equally possible
to dodge by the map. The captain in charge
took our lieutenant and myself across country
as exposed as Widbrook Common, with bullets
twinging like plucked telegraph wires across it.
He seemed quite unconcerned and — between
ducks — ^we emulated his manner. He picked a
zig zag course avoiding the road altogether (a
course I have since seen others pick across the
same country) until — just where the fire seemed a
shade too hot — he entered the communicating
trench.

I have seen the Village of . I wish I could

give you the name. I expected to find it a row
of ruins flanking deserted lanes and roads.

/ could not always distinguish roads from kitchens;
estaminets from farm yards ; interiors from ex-
teriors. Not only was grass growing in the streets
but in the paved floors of the houses, and where

132 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

walls have been thrown down, their materials
have been used to build other walls — barricades —
across roads — rooms — yards and gardens — in one
case across the railway, which occurred most
surprisingly in what I thought was a large farm
kitchen or outhouse, appearing under one such
new battered-to-old-seeming wall and disappear-
ing under another. Not only all this, but trenches
and barbed wire entanglements which one
associates unconsciously with exterior aspects,
traverse street and roofless room and yard alike,
joining cellar with cellar, until the whole village
beyond the church is both maze and ruin.

The Church is the most amazing sight of all.
Nothing remains of it but the high east end wall,
the rest being sheared off at the window sills.
This one huge pyramidal wall still stands clear
white, supporting a super-life-size Crucifix. The
village is absolutely deserted. Neither natives
nor our men attempt to live there. One or two
cellars are used as dugouts. The firing line runs a
few yards outside it, and stray bullets tick little
bits off it all day, while occasionally — as an
observation post is suspected in this or that
remaining wall — the Germans drop a few shells.
My impression is that further bombardment can
only simplify it. The present village with its
constant imitations of a house turned inside out

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 133

and exhibitions of railways and flowerbeds
apparently on the wrong sides of the front doors
is the last word.
I really must stop. Heaps of love.

France, April I5tb, 191 5.

Dearest.

The parcel arrived quite safe. The Walker's
is exactly what I want — both for use and show.
The Ideal is ideal. For goodness sake, keep me
supplied with milk above everything. It makes
the indifferent army tea quite palatable, and is
moreover easily converted into fried bread or an
early cup or an after dinner cup of really good
cook's tea. A man with a tin of milk can go
where he pleases and enjoy the best of everything.
Men, to whom a tip of cash would be an insult
(there are more than you think of such out here),
can be bought body and soul for four drops from
the can. The Germans with their characteristic
lack of insight have not realized this. For
Heaven's sake keep it dark !

This should be a letter to Mater but I am not
quite sure where she is. You will let her see it
as soon as possible, won't you dear ? The poor
Censor has groaned and the Lord has heard him
and we are now limited to 07ie letter a day. I am
glad. I used to lie awake pitying the poor man

134 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

who had to wade through all our effusions. Some
of the fellows used to write half a dozen in a day —
at the expense of uncleaned boots, unwashed
teeth, in fact all the important private duties of a
soldier on A.S. undone. You've no idea the time
these things take under the conditions we have
to do them under. The poor pumps of this
neighbourhood are quite inadequate to our
requirements and we wash, coram populo, in the
neighbouring brooks.

You ask what is the most striking feature of the
country under war. It is easy to answer : its
peacefulness. Where I am sitting now is not
twenty miles from the firing line. A more
peaceful Sunday morning scene can hardly be
imagined. I am on a wall between a garden and a
farmyard. The garden, it is true, is a bit gone
to pieces and our incinerator and rubbish pit
sear it slightly — but we had these things in peace-
ful England ; and they do not suggest the prox-
imity of war. Flowers are growing this spring
like every other, both in the garden and in the
fields away to my left. Larks and other birds
are singing. That is what you've got to remember
if you want to visualize the front as it is. One
takes for granted trenches, horse lines, ruined
villages, great and small guns, khaki and grey
dead, barbed wire, smoke and noise along the

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 135

black wriggley line that the " Daily Mail " and Co.
trace across their maps to show where our front is.
You must convince yourself that there are sky-
larks above the sand dunes near Ostend, just as
there used to be, pigeons in ruined Louvain,
early butterflies in the air among the bullets,
crows and rooks around Ypres, and Rheims,
daisies growing among the Jack Johnson holes
at Neuve Chapelle, violets in the ruins of Givenchy,
primroses at La Bassee and so on. Nature carries
on business as usual. I am just beginning to
realise it on the little I've seen, and what is true
here must be true all along the line.

I had a nasty spell last Monday, stood by at a
long (hour and a half) operation on the skull and
brain — trephining it is called. I nearly fainted
twice but pulled myself together and went back as
soon as I had got a breath of fresh air and a drink
of water outside the room. The blood did not affect
me at all. The infernal snoring and groaning of
the poor devil under the anaesthetic seemed to
hypnotise me. Moreover the room was very hot
and I was holding a bowl of Methylated spirit — the
smell from which is no help to a faint-feeling man.

It was touch and go with the man. A piece
of shell and some fragments of hat had pene-
trated the skull. After the operation hope was
expressed that he would be only paralysed. The

136 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

next morning he was reading " Punch " ! I felt
better than I've felt for years when I saw him
holding the paper in both hands.

The surgeons and doctors here are first class
and, outside rush times when the cases come in in
dozens, a man stands as good a chance here as he
would in England. It's the minor cases in their
earlier stages that don't stand so good a chance
of quick recovery. Boils, sore throats, tonsilitis
and CO. do not receive the careful treatment we
gave them at Hatfield.

I have only heard of two cases of cerebro spinal,
none of typhoid. Disease seems to be well in
hand. It is early to crow, though. The men
everywhere make a hobby of getting clean even if
they cannot keep so.

Your second parcel ! Oh yum yum, Warren's
Chocolate is it, why did I never taste it before ?
The cake too ! I wish postage were lower, I'd
ask for more.

Love to both your houses.

To Ms Son.

France, April 17th, 1915.

Dearest Little Boy.

How are you ? Did you get my last letter ?
Mummy wo7it answer about it. She tells me that

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 137

you are behaving beautifully. I am so glad to
hear it. I've got your photo in the pretty frame
with Mummy's tucked in behind you and every
morning I say " Good morning Vallie " to it and
every night I say " Good night." You look so
jolly you quite cheer me up— but oh ! I do so
want to see you your real self, my baby.

When the War's over and I come home,
Vallie, we'll have such a time. We'll get up
early and get the breakfast all on our own and go
for walks, and I'll take you to the theatre. I
hope there'll be some fairies like the gold ones-
do you remember ?

The weather is getting hotter here. It hasn't
rained today. Last night your Doody went for
such a funny ride on an army waggon to a town
a few miles away to fetch two motor bikes. It
was very dark and all the people had gone to bed.
Nobody was out except just us and our horses
and a big railway that never goes to sleep but
keeps on chu-chuing all night with supplies and
troops, and sometimes a hospital train, taking
away wounded from the front, where our men are
biffing into the Germans and hoping — like me —
to get it all over and get home to their little
boys.

Doody.

138 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

To his Wife.

France, April igth, 191 5.

Don't you worry about bullets, dear. My
visits to the danger zone look like being few and
far between and only at such moments as the
danger is at a minimum. We don't take part in
charges and countercharges in the R.A.M.C. and
it is in these real operations that the casualties
occur.

Oh my dear, I do wish you could have heard and
seen the first evening I spent in the (more or less)
sergeants' mess at that Advanced Dressing Station!
There were only two sergeants in it, but the old
nobility of the little party had acquired the habit
of taking their evening tot of rum with them
round a stove in the " dispensary " ; one of the
uninjured front rooms of the house, uninjured
only comparatively you understand. There were
no windows of course, and the ceiling had fallen
in places on the occasion when a shell had smashed
up the kitchen and officers' mess — both kitchen
staff and officers being, by the merest chance,
out at the time. There was also an improvised
chimney through the wall, the actual chimney
being out of action. In spite of this improvisa-
tion, the smoke from the stove, which they fed
very generously with wood from a deserted timber

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 139

yard near by, slowly filled the room and limited
each sitting of the little parliament to about an
hour and a half, by the end of which time, the
strongest having given in, the weaker vessels
accompanied him to the front door to watch the
star shells light up the country opposite, and
recover from their partial asphyxia,

I sat out two of these sittings. The elder of the
sergeants lolled at ease in a comfortable chair one
leg either side of the stove (the stoves hereabouts
stick well out into the room). He was suffering
from a carbuncle on his neck and wore a white
bandage like a stock round his throat, gray shirt
open at neck ; usual khaki rather dirty ; ragged
red moustache and hair and a weather beaten
face surrounded by an Aberdeen accent. That
is my everlasting impression of him. A queer,
clean, well bred little man whose lack of moustache
made him look almost cherubically boyish, leaned
most of the time over the back of his chair and
punctuated his remarks, when they waxed a
shade too preposterous, by offers to re-dress his
neck or apply a hot fomentation.

He was a curiously acute young man, this last,
very blase. Everyone liked him and he seemed to
like everybody — (I believe in these old parties
that have been together since the first months
one should say that the men love each other. You

140 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

at home still associate love with demonstrative-
ness, though goodness knows why, and would
think I mean they go on like Brutus and Co.
whereas I really mean they feel towards each
other as members of a family feel towards each
other). Help ! What a digression. They all
seemed to like the blase young man, leave it at
that. I will continue this description in my next.

To his Mother-in-law.

April 20th, 1915.

If you want to hear from me occasionally
you've got to write to me and keep up your end
of the correspondence. I can't tell you what
treasures letters are out here. They cheer one
for a whole day of depressing work — and this is
depressing work, you know, quite apart from
being carried on under all the depressing circum-
stances of discomfort, homesickness, and exile —
to say nothing of monotony of food which I feel
more than I ought to. Our food is quite good,
but oh it is unpalatable and monotonous !

I am rather unlucky this week doing two
guards in the week. That means two nights up
without corresponding days in, as compensation.
I am also pack store keeper — a beastly job which
I hate. Present state of book shows several shirts

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 141

lost and many pairs of pants risen from nowhere
to daunt me. It doesn't look military, does it ?
F ncy worrying about shirts with guns ever
booming a few miles away, and hostile aeroplanes
spying out our drying ground every fine evening.
Still it's done — even under fire, unless you happen
to get hit and then all responsibility ceases.
This is again curious.

To his Mother.

April 22nd, 1915.

My dearest Mater,

I'm sorry not to have written to you for
so many days, but I haven't known where to find
you. You would have had a letter had I known.

Our section has taken over duties this week.
Two of the four Corporals have celebrated the
occasion by " going cooty," otherwise declaring
possession of one or more lice and being quaran-
tined in the scaby ward. I started the week
as corporal in charge of latrines and general
fatigues — a job I like as I can in it make myself
mildly objectionable on the subjects of cleanliness
and sanitation. After two hours of it however I
was made pack store keeper, vice Corporal Walker
gone cooty. One hour later the Corporal of the
guard went ditto, and I am now combining pack

142 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

stores and guard. It's going to be a beastly tie
I can tell you.

Pack store keeper is supposed to take charge of
all effects of patients admitted to hospital, and
to see to the washing of whatever needs washing
among those effects. I wish he had power to
decide what needs burning.

Most of our patients are quite unambitious in
their ailments : the usual boils, scabies, bad heels,
etc., being nearly half their number. Somehow
though, these minor ills seem to make men —
usually clean — careless of the interior of their
knapsacks and haversacks and the accumulation
of old socks, bits of bread, letters, buttons and
fragments of tinned beef at the bottoms thereof
are very distressing.

Good news is very sparingly dealt out, isn't it ?
I suppose we shall sooner or later get through the
Dardanelles, sweep the Bosches from Belgium,

recapture " '" (our own particular hobby

hereabouts is the recapture of " "), and I

suppose one of these days the steady weakening
of Germany will make her a little too weak to
hold off the rest of the world. I wish it would
hurry up though. I have no hope of seeing any
of you this summer — unless I come home before
the war is over — a contingency which, curiously
enough would not please me— unless it were only

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAIVUTIST 143

for a few days leave. Of course that I would like
most awfully. Oh, for a few days every other
month !

Must conclude this letter. It has been written
in spells of half a dozen lines at a time between
jobs,

God bless you all. My love to Dennis— can he
talk any yet ? —wait a minute.

Wow ! I was called by an enthusiastic washer-
man to view the dead lice on a patient's shirt
after boiling ! Like Queen Victoria " We are
not amused." Lice, my dear, lice, not fleas or
bugs. Ugh !

By the way, Crawfords do an awfully good box
of biscuits for sending to the front. It is— I
regret to say — called " The Hero Box," but other
people like its contents. Such a box every now
and then would go very well. The biscuits are
just the rich and fancy sort we long for.

To his Wife.

France, April 22 nd, 191 5.

Dearest,

Things very peaceful these last few days.
Weather charming. We've got the Band out and
I shall cease writing abruptly at 3 to go and hear
a few " chunes," with which we are going to rejoice

144 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

the villagers. Bombardments in the distance
the last few nights, aeroplanes in plenty — mostly
our own I regret to say. A German being warmly
received is a very exciting sight from the point of
view of those safe on terra firma— exciting but
hard to follow. The intruder is so easily mistaken
for those French and British 'planes which go
up to give chase, and the clouds of shrapnel shell
smoke in the air drift so quickly down the wind
together (though some still evenings they hang
for a bit) that twenty watchers can generally
evolve a totally different story of the fight.

We are running a couple of wards and a scaby
ward but this only keeps one section busy at a
time, the other two filling in the tedious " standing
by " time with marches and drills — physical and
stretcher — and occasional lectures which are
more like pow-wows, everybody putting in their
say. Gay and I gave one afternoon's entertain-
ment, he describing the nursing he had seen

at when he was there and I the pleasant

little operation that kept me so happy for a
couple of hours.

Send me nothing but food, tobacco and light
literature — not too much of the two latter.
Thank your Mother very much for the cuttings.
I can't find them at the moment, but Wright's
coal tar soap one cake at a time would be most

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 145

acceptable, also a little Fel's naptha. Be careful
to send me no Stores of things such as boxes of
soap etc. Every blessed thing we possess has to
be carried with us on our own backs. Some of the
fellows get supplies of sugar sent them — a mere
waste of postage — others six pairs of sox ! If
they are wise they give them away. Food can
always be eaten if not by me personally by a
small party convened by me, each member of
which will assuredly invite me to his party when
his box arrives — see ?
The Band !

Bless you all !

April 24th, 1 91 5.

My Darling,

I am having a very lively time combining
Corp. of Guard with pack store keeper. Have not
slept or attempted to sleep since yesterday
morning — five o'clock. I rather enjoy a night on
Guard. There are two ways to look at it (i) a
night's sleep spoiled and (ii) an adventure. I
feel I've said this before — have I ?

Weather is improving rapidly : days very fine
and warm — nights cold and frosty. Washing is
very cold work. Think of me stripped to the
middle dabbling in a soapy brook before six a.m.
and shaving in the shelter of a sort of young
railway arch (it does not support a railway and

K

146 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

is merely an architectural feature of our beloved
home from — very Jar from— home). We turn in
from sheer lack of light before eight and are most
of us ready and glad to nip up at reveille — 5.30.
I know I am often awake long before that, and —
once awake —a stone floor, even when strewn with
straws which show which way the wind blows,
does not encourage late lying.

I wonder, dear, if you can get me some fizzy
drink to mix with water — some sort of fruit salts —
packed in a tin for transit. Bottles weigh so
much in themselves. They had something of the
sort at the advance dressing station which was
very pleasant and — I should say^ — beneficial now
that summer is acumen in.

Must finish — earlier post or something.
Love.

To his Son.

April 26th, 1915.

Tell Vallie : My dear little boy I want to come
home just as much as you want me to, but I
can't for a long time yet, not till all the Germans
have had their heads sat on, and all the Turks
have had their heads sat on and one or two
Austrians have had their heads sat on — and that
will certainly take the whole lovely summer and a

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 147

bit over — but I think I shall see you again
about the time when you have to light up
before tea.
Send me heaps of messages my sweet.

Your DooDY.

To his Wife.

I suppose you will spend your holidays at
Maidenhead, dear. It makes me so sad to miss
a summer with you but it's got to be. I have real
hopes of getting home in November. If Italy
does come into it that will hurry things up
enormously but I'm sure we can win without
her. You know how enormously I believe in the
winning spirit — well it's out here in big chunks,
not only in our boys but in the French. The
German humour seems to be one of gas mingled
with amazement. They cannot understand us ; —
our chaplains going into the Trenches ; our
advance dressing stations carrying on week after
week under fire — all the things that we take so
matter-of-factly seem to puzzle those Germans who
are flung by circumstances from their regime into
ours. Above all I believe our N.C.O.'s shock
them. I heard at first hand of a German some-
thing-more-than-mere-man who said that the way
our N.C.O.'s fraternised with the men was

148 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

swinish ! My informant — a Corporal R.A.M.C. —
had heard him say it. He merely quoted the
Bosch without much appreciation of the excellence
of the humour, and I am convinced he was not
inventing it.

I have been faring extremely well lately, Roffe's
people and Willet's people having so to speak
got the range and started an ordered bombard-
ment. Meat paste and cakes and biscuits and
tinned fruits arrive by every post for some member
of my " click " (you know what a " click " is,
don't you ?) and my " dominant personality "
{Capell) being particularly assertive about tea
time I come in for several shares. We are all
very generous with our hampers — casting bread
upon the waters we call it.

One thing I lack is good tobacco. I have
decided that I do not care for the army issue. I
live in the hope of some more John Cotton from
Mr. Chamberlain soon — I gather from his letter
I shall get it — also I look forward to the Rasp and
Crown from you —

By the way, next time you go to 72 fish
out my clay pipe in case you can find it, and
shove it in the next ensuing parcel. This is
not important.

Letters, Letters, Letters, — thems what are.
Love

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 149

April 30th, 1 91 5.

My Darling,

Curious situations abound. Behold me
sitting in Lieut. Dickenson's chair by Lieut.
Dickenson's fire in the midst of Lieut. Dickenson's
deserted patience (a game unkno\vn to me : five
rows and aces out) Lieut. D. having gone forth to
the Regimental Aid Post on our L. Front to see
a man afflicted suddenly with peritonitis. We
are a party forming an Advance Dressing Station

here at . We have just sent our first case

(Sergeant shot through chin, tongue and neck —
quite conscious — hit at three, remained in trench
till seven, left us 8.15— in Hospital by now)

into together with a request for two pounds

of soda for the Bat. M.O. on our R. Front. (Thus
our Motor Ambulances fetch and carr^-). I am
waiting up to take the soda when it arrives up
to the M.O. at his aid post behind the trenches.
Why soda in the middle of the night ? Gas, my
dear. Les Bosches are now throwing chunks of
gas at us. Nasty smelly trick, isn't it ? We
are replying in our nice clean British way with
soda— at least so I thought at first, but the truth
is that partially asphyxiated Tommies thrive on
Sodium 5^"— not the washing variety. I am
going to rouse out Fisher (now sleeping peacefully

150 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

in the billet in spite of a batterj/) to walk up with
me when the stuff arrives. Lieut. Dickenson
won't let me go alone. It is a lovely night —
high moon almost full and a low mist over the
firing line through which star shells (otherwise
rockets) twinkle up occasionally. The battery
near here " bings " out a shell every ten minutes
or so. It is a noisy brute but some naval guns
over a mile away are quite deafening even at
that distance. The expression " tearing the
atmosphere " really applies to the scream of their
shells as they pass overhead. They do sound
like tearing silk heard through a stethoscope.
The prettiest sound of the night is a machine-
gun a mile or so to our right firing short tap-tap
tap tap taps like an over grown woodpecker.
Understand that these sounds are only occasional
only the scattered rifle fire being anythmg like
continuous, and that so scattered that it is a
mere background. Bing ! from the near battery
— five minutes elapse — tap tap tap tap, another
four or five — ^tap tap tap again — a slight in-
crease in the rifle fire — Bahang Wheeeee I from the
naval gun — ten minutes perfect calm but for
rifles very faint and intermittent, tap tap tap —
tap tap tap. This time from further off : the
woodpecker's mate. Sh Sh Sh — Sh — Sh a
German shell coming to look for our Battery.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 151

Sh Sh Sh! Whap! Missed it by about half
a mile — five or six minutes peace. Bing from ours.
Bing again after a minute and two more bings
rapid. Peace once more, the rifles a trifle fainter,

one crack a trifle louder. Tap tap tap tap tap

That's half an hour not taken down of course
but tjrpified. I am looking forw^ard to the walk.

Monday.

I was interrupted in the above by message that
more patients were coming down. We had to
meet them. I got to sleep about one and was up
again at 5.30 In fact I find I have only had six
and a half hours of sleep (only four and a half
without boots on) since 5.30 a.m. the day before
3'esterday. I am going to have a nap this after-
noon though. Last night's walk up and back
was delightful and quite safe. The Aid Posts
are, of course, not in really dangerous positions.
Only danger was from sentries. They get hypno-
tised by the rattle of the rifle fire and being
awakened drop their bayonets smartly to the
approaching stomach and sa}' very fiercely but
surprisingly quietly " 'Alt ! " I always obey.
" \\'ho are you ? " I generally forget, which
rouses suspicion. I then remember but stammer
over it. The stammer produces a sympathy in
the sentry who says apologetically and bashfully

152 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

" P — P — pas Sflam-bublance " Then with

full consciousness of the ridiculousness of the
remark " All's — well." That being said he calls
after me in his natural voice suddenly redis-
covered — " What's the time, chum ? " I am
sorry for sentries. They get so fearfully smitten
with self-consciousness.

I really feel I am some use at last. I am
N.C.O. in charge of party (seventeen including
officer and the padre). Lieut. D. is a treat to
work with. I have no one to share — or double — ■
my responsibilities under him and he treats me
as an intelligent human being not an escaped
lunatic with criminal tendencies : the way certain
superior N.C.O. 's seem to think their juniors
should be treated. This is like being back with
Barker again.

Wednesday.

This letter written in jiblets. Thanks for
your long one — a treat. Have lost Mater's
address. Looking fonvard to tobacco. Army
issue uncertain up here — ^we depend upon our

Quartermaster at whither the Sixth moved

the day after I left with my party. They are
rigging up a hospital there and must be having
a hell of a time scrubbing floors.

Aeroplane fight outside — excuse me.

(Returned).

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 153

I really hate to miss them especially in a good
light — most exciting — no result — as usual —
shrapnel wasted.

Bless you all — ^buck up tobacco. I am now
smoking one of Lieut. Dickenson's cigars.

May 3rd.

Darling,

Still at the Advanced Dressing Station,
expect to be relieved on Sunday, the plan being
to relieve the personel of Advanced Dressing
Stations in toto every week or even oftener.
Since I came here the 6th London Field Ambulance

have moved into and started work with a

vengeance, ambulance orderlies coming out daily
— ^the motor cyclist going and returning, and
occasional officers and chaplains coming out
to pay us a visit, all bring stories of how we
are turning the' Ecole Maternelle into a hospital
by dint of scrubbing brush and more scrubbing
brush.

We, here, have done a fair amount of cleaning
up too ; the regulars having left this place in a
state no Territorial Officer could tolerate.

I am joking of course, but oh we are militar}^
v/e Territorials ! We are thorough ! The regulars
are more than friendly in their attitude towards
us, but they sometimes smile.

154 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

There is a gentle soul talking to me continu-
ously all the time I am writing this — I must
postpone.

Next day.

This is a week of sensations but I really think
last night will be unbeaten at the end of the war.
It was by moonlight — almost full — that adds
something, don't you think ? I had taken
three men in answer to a message incoherently
delivered by a man on horseback, accompanied
by two cyclists — •

" Man gone mad down at They've got

'im in a little room — by the railway station."

We found him not raving but apparently asleep,
wrapped in blankets quiet as death. A stretcher
was brought out of the motor and about a dozen
spare stretcher slings I had thought to bring-
fortunately — and we debated a moment in the
moonlight. What a curious group we must have
been on the deserted station platform, standing
round him ! Then one of his chums touched him.
You must imagine more than I can describe in
this chatter. He raved and bit and beat out
with fists and feet snarling like a dog — really like
a dog — ^we got him on to a stretcher, and I lashed
him on as gently as I could but very firmly.
Once bending across him I touched his face with

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 155

my sleeve, he had it in his teeth in a minute —
and in the midst of it men passed going up to the
trenches singing. They passed along the road
not fifty yards away while a dozen of us held him
down by arms and legs and hair, and muffled
him in blankets and packed him off with two of
our men and two of his chums to our snug little

brand new hospital at . Aschcroft and I

then set out to walk back to our station.

It was this walk in the moonlight with the star
shells on the horizon and the rattling line towards
which we were walking (the station lies away
from the firing line from here) that provided the
sensation. I was naturally impressed. Ash-
croft is a good obvious fellow. He prattled
wonderingly of " Wot would make a chap go off
like that." He supposed he had been " too
darmg like " and it had " told on him." " These
Engineers go mad very easy — • " etc. Can't you
hear him — an old liner steward — a bit of a gardener
— a silk hat maker last job — age about forty ?
The sort of man you meet fifty of in an hour.

We had to pass the wooded garden of the

Chateau de . In the wood are about two

score graves, half of our men and half of Indians
— Khdir's and All's — ^beautifully tended graves
shining in bead wreaths and pine crosses. Over
them in the moonlight a nightingale was singing

156 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

loud and sweet. Its first notes were so close and
so low that I was startled.

Eh bien, I can't express it. I feel as if for a week
past a great super-human artist had been painting
for me, in all the colours and sounds and feelings
and scents of creation, a picture of himself. He is
Reality one moment, Mystery the next.

Have I mentioned the spy we saw in uniform,
being marched away under armed guard —
swaggering but unable to swagger in a straight
line. I shouldn't be surprised to hear he was no
spy and got off — but he swaggered and he was
frightened. That was what I saw.

I w^ent up to the th H.Q. this afternoon

and saw two men buried. Their chums were so
particular to dig them a level grave and a rec-
tangular grave and parallel graves, and to note
who was in this grave, who in that, that my mind,
jumping to questions as always, was aching with
why's which I wouldn't have asked for the world
• — almost as if the answer — -you take me — would
disgrace me for not knowing it aheady — brand me
as lacking some decency the grave diggers had.

Oh Lord the mystery of men's feelings.

May 6tli, 1915.
I want you to send me at once Bell's Standard
Elocution (Mrs. Carpenter has a copy which I

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 157

will return if she will lend it). I also want " The
Revenge " and Henry's speeches — the one about
England and the one beginning " Upon the King "
and the Charioteer's speech from Euripides (Gil-
bert Murray's translation). Oh Lord, what is the
play ? I suppose I must do without it. Send the
others at once though. This is really important.

I am back at our Main Dressing Station (you
would call it a Hospital but we are modest) in the
pretty little town of six miles behind the line.

To his Mother.

May 7th, 1915.

Dearest Mater,

I feel very wicked : not having written to
you for well over a week — ^but you make allow-
ances, don't you ?

Returned from the advanced dressing station
(and jolly sorry to leave it) yesterday — ^Tuesday,
and am now at our main dressing station in ■bbb
(my own blacking not the censor's). I object
to using dashes, they interfere with the punctu-
ation ; so I describe this charming little French
— very French — Cathedral city, six miles behind
the firing line as bhh

I was amazed when I got here to see what a
workman-like place the old 6th had made of these
blocks of school buildings. Tents and cooking

158 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

trenches in the three playgrounds, medical wards,
surgical wards, orderly room, operating theatre
and " dressing room." I am on duty in this
" dressing room," and operating theatre (the
staffs are interchangeable necessarily) from 7 a.m.
to 7 p.m. with two hours off daily.

Patients arrive at all hours ; generally in twos
and threes — frequently in fives and sixes (the
last invariably at meal times). They are carried
into the dressing room where boots etc. are re-
moved (this saves the operating theatre from dirt),
and then transported to the operating theatre
where their wounds are inspected and dressed and
where every man receives an injection of anti-
tetanus anti-toxin. Septic wounds never go into
the theatre at all but are dressed in the dressing
room. Nasty things they are. We evacuate
our cases pretty fast. The medical wards are
quite independent of our surgical. B section
looks after them — they get a lot of work. We
have a so-called infectious ward but the more
infectious cases, like measles, diphtheria, etc.,
go to a special hospital by special " yellow "
ambulances. I fancy our " infectious " ward
contains nothing more dangerous than scaby
cases. It didn't a day or so ago anyway.

My only complaint against present existence
is the length of time between reveille and break-

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 159

fast— nominally 5.30 to 8 (that's bad enough)
but actually 5 until you can get it. Parade for
duties is now 6 a.m. and to be shaved and cleaned
up for the day before six demands a five o'clock
arising from the one blanket and great coat on the
floor we call bed. Then, though breakfast is
nominally eight, a certain number of ward
orderlies etc. have to wait until 8.30 every morn-
ing. Of course we take this waiting in turns.

My chief work to-day has been unbooting
wounded heroes and giving them beef tea.
Though this afternoon I donned the white gown
of a grand inquisitor, sublimated my hands and
assisted with a couple of dressings ; shrapnel
(beastly stuff) wounds all over the place.

This letter extends over a day and a half with
at least a score of interruptions. This is not an
exaggeration, there is a man reading the Telegraph
to me — only to me — even now ; he doesn't mind
my gomg on writing, so I suppose I mustn't mind
his reading. Oh, for an hour's absolute privacy
in the twenty-four !

May 8th, 1915.

Dearest,

You are wrong — you cannot guess from
my mention of gas where I am.
We are tremendously busy. Have turned a

i6o WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

very convenient old block of school buildings
into bright clean wards and operating and dress-
ing rooms. A dressing room is to all intents
and purposes a minor operating room. The more
it resembles the best operating theatre in London
the better. All ours here are amazingly light
and lofty and we have cleaned and whitened
them, floors walls and ceilings, till I, for one, am
really proud of us. We have as yet experienced
no " rush " such as must accompany any big
attack, our brigade being on one of those sections
of front that cost a life or two a day and supply
a couple of dozen real casualties in the twenty-four
hours at the outside. Of course we have sick as
well. Health generally excellent in the division,
it seems. No enteric, typhoid or dip. as far as
I know. Favourite diseases boils, scabies, im-
petigo (nasty thing impetigo but quite a trifle
if taken seriously enough). I think our feeding
makes for health in the main — though I am
convinced that if a man ate his full ration every
day for a week, he would perish miserably. Half
pound of jam per diem ! Heaven knows how
much meat ! Do you wonder I asked for a fizzy
drink ? By the way it is just what I wanted.

I find I have dissertated. Half way up the
page before last I should have said that we are
looking after two brigades, in fact we have had

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST i6i

the pleasure of being the first of the 3 Field
Ambulances in the division to do active work,
one of the others standing in reserve with their
brigade and another — poor devils — having settled
down to look after the divisional washing. We
trembled for a week under the fear that that
might be our fate.

I really am awfully bucked with our place
here. Three blocks of buildings each a quad-
rangle around a gravel playground shaded by
trees just breaking into green. Rooms very lofty
with windows (enormous windows) on two sides.
Concussion of big guns combined with Fisher's
efforts as a window cleaner have supplied fresh
air, as well as light per these windows. The
No I dressing room in the surgical has lost every
pane of glass bar two. (Fisher not responsible.)
In the playgrounds we have erected tents (you
should have seen me wrestling with a new and
unshrunken bell tent — to the great amusement
of the Sergeant Major — in the fading Hght last
night. The unholy thing seemed to have about a
dozen flaps too many.

We, ourselves, are packed into rooms in the
3rd block ; six feet by two feet of floor per man
is about our allowance but there is heaps of room
in the ist and 2nd block where are the wards and
if ever a rush comes we shall not be unprepared.

L

i62 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

After their experiences at the beginning of the
war that has been the one cry of the Medical
Corps, Be ready for a rush ! The Regular
Field Ambulances in this town tell highly coloured
tales of the hundreds of cases a day some of them
were faced with. " Evacuate ! Evacuate ! " —
that of course is the cry. Get 3'our cases on across
France to the bases — or across the Channel and
be ready for the next. As soon as a man can be
moved, out he goes.

I was "at it " from 6 a.m. till 3.45 yesterday
and from 5.15 till g.30 in the morning in the
operating theatre (doing very little but still " at
it "). In the afternoon moving down to the
medical, which we took over, exchanging depart-
ments with B Section. This is supposed to make
for general efficiency — very likel}'' it does but it
also makes a lot of work. In the evening we and
B. were both so horrified at the state the other
had left their wards in, that we turned to and
scrubbed the whole place out. C. Section thought
of it first. So I think we scored.

As a matter of fact B. are a jolly good section
(and so are we) but we think we are a shade
better (and so do they) .

In fine I am convinced we are as good as any
regular Amb. in France, barring experience.
Our very mixedness and number of different

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 163

employments in civil life making for efficiency
in the multifarious jobs of a Field Ambulance.
Plumber, carpenter, clerk, navvy, cook, groom,
motor driver — ^just as useful as nurse or doctor.
Love.

To his Wife.

May 12th, 1915.

Dearest,

I can't write more than a few lines now.
Have had a " rush " — our little operating tent
alone had fifty cases, at least, through in a night
and a day. Most of them shrapnel. Many
serious. But Oh, my Dear the pluck of them !
and the amazing cleanness of their bodies under
the muddy khaki and sweat and blood drenched
vests and shirts. Few were of our Division — ,
most regulars. Hard ruddy little Scots. A
bloodstained kilt, my dear, is a sight to make a
painter gasp — such colouring ! and in the white
acetyline light of our tent !

I'm dead tired — can't stick to the subject, will
postpone letter tUl to-morrow.

The rush has slowed up. It was wonderful
while it lasted. The roar of the guns in the morn-
ing warned us what was coming. Nearly all our
men were sent up to the bearer stations (advance
dressing station) I was kept here to work in the

i64 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

operating tent. I was awfully disappointed at
first but the view we got of the attack from our
operating table was worth staying here for.
We had some of the cases under chloroform.
I'll try to tell you all about it one day — I can't
now.

I feel tremendously fit. Started a bad head-
ache half way through the rush — we had a lull
at about sun-down and cleaned up ready for the
next convoy — then I had a splitting headache
but I curled up for a nap on the floor at eleven
among the empty anti-toxin bottles and was
roused an hour later, feeling as fresh as a daisy.
Worked through from then (about midnight)
till ten last night when I retired into my comer
of C. Section billet, failed to get to sleep there
owing to some returned bearers trying to tell
me what they had seen, and came forth again to
the erratic bell tent I put up some days ago.
There I slept well until six this morning. As I
said before I am feeling tremendously fit.

Love to all.

May 17th, 1915.

Have been on night duty these last few nights.
We have cleared out all our wounded from C.
section block and B. is receiving the stray night
casualties, until the next rush, so night duty at

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 165

present entails keeping awake without excite-
ment or work — a dismal business. Last night
though the Germans put a dozen shells or so
across right into the town here, peppering our
Quartermaster's bed with the second. He had
left it on hearing the first. Later, shells injured
a few unfortunate civiHans : women and children
of course. I believe one woman is dead. Our
patients in the medical ward slept through it.
We have about a score in our medical ward and
the scaby tent, but they supply no entertainment
to the night duty man.

Fisher and most of my chums are up at the
advanced dressing station at present (we take it
in turns up there), and I am thrown upon the
older members of the 6th very decent chaps
indeed. I like most of them. I'm not sure I'm
not glad to have got away from the Chelsea set
for a bit (though we expressed great sorrow
at being separated), if only to improve the ac-
quaintance of some of these fellows. They are
curious, hardened, sinners some of them in the
matter of being in to the exact and stated second —
taking leave (this when in England) when not
granted it, etc. — things we, who joined since the
war, would no more think of doing than of
assaulting the Sergeant Major (the unthinkablest
think I can think of), yet withall they are ever so

i66 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

much more competent than we are and the
Powers who punish them for their peccadilloes
don't mix up peccability with incompetence.

From all this don't deduce that I am meditating
a few minor sins of my own. I am merely giving
expression to a humiliating sense that there are
in the 6th many men much better than I am at
everything, except conforming to regulations,
who have been passed over for the stripe that I
have obtained, chiefly by cleaning my buttons,
shaving before parade and generally clicking my
heels about the place, while they stood akimbo
instead of at attention, and occasionally indulged
a natural propensity to break irksome regulations.

To his Mother.

May 2 1st, 1915.

Dearest Mater,

Don't write as if I neglected to write to
you ! I think I do wonders. If you only knew
the difficulties in the way of letter writing in this
outlandish place. Do you realize that except in
the three-quarter hour off that we have between
" off duty " seven and being in billets by eight
we never see chairs or tables — and then only if
we get first to the crowded caf^s or estaminets
can we sit on or at them. We billet as a rule
about forty in a room or attic the size and style

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 167

of your attic over Hazlemere ! — plus a strong
floor. At present we are in a schoolroom which
is mercifully cool. Attics get so appallingly hot
and stuffy. We sleep on a waterproof sheet on
the floor (more often than not out here — even in
attics — the floor being a tiled or stone one) and
have one blanket each for covering. This we
eke out with our own clothes.

We are ha\dng very hot days now and a lot
of glaring sun which gives me a bit of a headache
most afternoons. I am thinking of affecting
smoked glasses. I wonder if they would be
condemned as unmilitary. There are no heights
to which the inane vanity of the army cannot
rise. Fancy these idiotic moustaches that we all
have to grow " to make us look soldierly." Did
you ever hear such rot ? There is something of
the old W^ellington, who stuck up for the white
(and tight) neck cloths because they gave the
men such a fresh colour, in the British army of
to-day. I fancy it will suffer some in this war
though.

I have seen a lot more of this town. It is —

as I have said — nearer the front than " "

and south thereof, and well within range of the
enemy (the front of our hospital shows traces of
recent peppering by the fragments of burst shell),
and yet the streets are full of people and the coal

i68 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

mines and works all hard at it. That is the
strangest thing about these folk. Even up to a
mile behind the trenches, peasants live on, keeping
a Httle bit of their garden going and not even
complaining as they lose this or that shed, horse,
or crop, by a shell. In some cases they even
live on in one end of a house after the other end
has been wrecked ahnost over their heads. Only
right up in such towns as, you know where, and
the two similar in a line south of it (which I
visited at Easter) does one tell that everything
has been driven out. These towns really are
deserted and have been so for months, but now
that we are pushing beyond them steadily I
expect the more peasant-like of the inhabitants
will be trickling back, before it is anything like
safe to do so.

I am on a rotten dull routinal job now. My
duty is to collect the men for evacuation to other
Field Ambs. or back to clearing hospitals into
little parties, to see that their " tallies " are
readable (which they never are), that they have
their kits, etc., and then I have to watch them
for fear they may get lost before the convoy
of motor ambulances can gather them up and
take them to wherever they're bound for. My
dear mother, they do take some watching. Serious
cases of course are no trouble. They stay put

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 169

on their stretchers, but we have scores of minor
cases : dental cases, cases for the convalescent
companies, deafs, eyes, boils and skin diseases,
and they all stray alike. The deafs in particular.
They drift away, find a retired comer and fall
asleep. Enter the convoy, loaded — one short.
Private McGuiness ! (not a fake name) no answer.
Private McGuiness, as loud as I can shout. No
answer. PRIVATE McGUINESS ! in chorus
by Lieut. Dixon half a dozen orderlies and self.
Result three patients suffering from shock in a
back ward have fainting fits and the cook misses
the meat he is chopping and brings his finger
along for treatment in the operating theatre.
Dinner is late, the convoy goes without McGuiness
who wakes four hours later and asks where he
can have a wash.

Bye-bye. Cheer up. I shall be home in a year
or two, if all goes well.

Love.

May 23rd, 1915.
I am up at the advance dressing station again :
at the moment of writing I am up further at a
point we call " Welsh Chapel " (every place about
here has its English name). It is about a mile up
from our advance dressing station and is used as
a sort of Guard Room and Quartermaster's

170 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Stores for the trenches which are out at the back
I have been up to my eyes in work (at the main
dressing station in " ") since Sunday morn-
ing when the British and French attack began
(or rather when its fruits in wounded began to
reach us. The actual attack began on Saturday
night). Nominally I have been on night duty
in the operating tent, but naturally with wounded
and wounded and wounded flowing in neither
night nor day duty means anything. I had had
eight hours sleep in three days, when heavy
fighting out here developed and the message
came down for more bearers, so out I came with
a dozen others by horse ambulance (time two
a.m.) and going on on foot just as day was break-
ing, found a Regimental M.O. in a room in a gutted
house with some half dozen wounded and two or
three dead on the floor about him. His own
regimental stretcher bearers were carrying and
carrying the long mile down to a spot where an
ambulance could meet them, in comparative
safety. I gave a hand with my party of six
and between us we carried down two : you have
no idea of the physical fatigue entailed in carrying
a twelve stone blesse a thousand odd yards across
muddy fields. Oh this cruel mud ! Back in

" " we hate it (the poor fellows come in

absolutely clayed up), but out here, it is infernal.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 171

It clings and sucks at your boots ; weighs you
down ; chills you and, drying in upper garments,
makes them chafe. The dead lie in it in queer
flat — jacent — attitudes. They nearly always look
flung down rather than fallen, their feet turned
sideways lie flatter than a living man's could, and
the thighs splayed out lower the contours of the
back. An unrelieved level of liquid mud seems
to be the end of war.

I have digressed from the history of to-da}-.
We carried two poor devils down and I got our
advance dressing station M.O. to allow me to
take a horse ambulance up — right up to Welsh
Chapel for others — ^whom we did not wait long for.
It was a sporting gallop up the torn road, I
don't know when the last four wheeled vehicle
had been so far up but the Germans are falling
back steadily now and unless a shelling of the
road occurred we were quite safe.

Oh the din I am writing this in dear ! There
ought to be thousands of wounded on both sides
if noise counted for anything, but here I have been
for over an hour without a call. We are supposed
to be relieving the regimental stretcher bearers
until noon so that they can get some rest. They
have been carrying for about two days with only
cat naps between jobs.

172 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Later. Same place.

Just off back to the advance dressing station.
The guns are still making an unearthly din. I
have counted eleven German dud shells. Tseau —
000 — 00 — you wait for the bang and nothing
happens — loud cheers.

Next day.
Advance Dressing Station.

We went on carrying during the afternoon and
evening of yesterday and late — •

— come to work it out this is not " next day "
but day after next — •

We finished that first day here carrying down
from a point on our L. called the Keep a point
very like Welsh Chapel which is on our right.
Most of our men stuck it till 4 a.m. but I and my
party, who had had the morning spell, knocked
off before dawn and went back to the Adv. where
we climbed into a loft and dropped. We slept
just as we were — I didn't even take my mac
cape off — dead beat until I was roused by the
floor under me throwing me gently into the air,
a matter of three inches and receiving me again
in a way that revealed Tuy hip and elbow pro-
tuberances with rousing painfuhiess. Our biggest
siege guns about 500 yards away had opened.
Every shot flung us all up like pins on a banjo.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 173

We scrambled down and took refuge on the paved
floor below and after five minutes of that left the
falling — ^gently falling — ceiling overhead for the
open where I for one slept on till seven in spite
of the imholy din. It was most like a nightmare
of trombones — a strepitant blare of metalic noise.
Still — in the open — so weary were we that we
slept through it after a fashion. It is much worse
when one is under a ceiling and between shaking
walls.

During the day things quietened down — I went

into " " (same old " ") as orderly with

horse ambulance and returned with motor and
the fun started again at sundo-wn as the weather
improved (it had been dull all day interfering
with our advance).

What a night and morning •

Interrupted and resumed.

I cannot remember the order of that night — •
carrying down from the keep — intense weariness,
accompanied by sickness. I brought up every-
thmg I hadn't had for supper and chucked bearing
for a bit I remember.

Two trips into " " with wounded — a lead

and opium pill for little Mary — and an adventure
which I cannot describe for the life of me. The

174 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

quite middle of it was spent crawling about
among the beastly dead in a newly captured
German trench with a very non material minded
Roman Catholic chaplain who — Oh — 'Tsno use.
I can't do justice to it or him. I only remember
that I felt a great affection for that trench when
once we were in it and tried to crack a joke to
that effect and the R.C. wanted it explained.
Oh Lor. Oh lummy ! I also remarked that it
faced the wrong way — meaning of course for us
with the Germans over there — but he pointed
out that it hadn't been built to protect from that
direction —

Do you understand all this ?

Anyway I'm back in " " now and after a

few hours' rest by order of the S.M. — an order I
carried out very indifferently owing to a company
(250 men) visiting our billet during it and chalking
out places in the adjoining — ^but not partitioned
off — part of our top floor. I am on for the night
as pack store keeper. I shall not pack store keep,
though as now — at midnight comes an order we
are to evacuate this lovely hospital we have
made ! Shells have certainly fallen very close
(the nearest in the guard room fifty yards away)
and that is the reason given. It's hard luck
though when we've spent a month perfecting it
and getting it as clean as a new pin.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 175

Friday.

We have moved across " " to another

school and spent the day getting tents up rooms
scrubbed, etc. etc. etc. Patients began to arrive
at 9 a.m. and all was ready for them. I am
building an incinerator.

Later.

One of our naughty wicked transport men has
been " crimed " for cheeking a sergeant and I am
put in charge of him. We didn't happen to have
a corporal of the guard — or a guard — when he
was sentenced so one has had to be appointed
and I'm it. Rotten job. Strong inclination to
give my prisoner a cigarette, which of course I
mustn't do.

Sunday morning.

I was corporal of the guard for the night, but
my work was hospital rather than regimental.
At about midnight we had to turn out of the
guard tent to make room for a dying man who was
becoming delirious and could not be kept in the
ward. He tried to get up half a dozen times
during the night and early morning and we guards
supplemented the orderly (nurse you understand)
in his efforts to keep the poor fellow quiet — ^not a
difficult job, he was quite sweet and reasonable —

176 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

only unable to understand why he couldn't get
up and get some tea going. Between these spells
he sang softly over and over again " Artie White,"
" Artie White " in an ascending tritone

over and over again. He is singing it now as I
write outside his tent in the sunshine.

Our guns are roaring hke the sea in the distance.
We are advancing, but oh ! the price ! The

Germans are shelling " " at long range

occasionally

Hullo — here's a new horror ! We are to leave
here now ! 48 hours work wasted. It is one of
the anomalies of modem war that an advancing
front imperils its rear by inducing the retreating
enemy to concentrate long range guns thereon
and we are to fall back while our advance dressing
station very likely presses forward.

Now for a night of work again loading waggons.

I haven't had my boots off for eight hours in
the last seven days. I haven't had one unbroken
night's sleep in that time. Many naps totalling
I should say four hours per twenty four have
been my portion but I have just had some lovely
stew made from McConachies' Army Ration of

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 177

meat and vegetables and a cup of tea and I feel
as fit as a fiddle.

God bless you darlings.

The whole front just now is one Hell of mud
and weariness, such as I never conceived possible,
and heroic medical officers sorting the dead from
the living and struggling, struggling, struggling,
against chaos.

There isn't a regimental medical officer upon
this sector who doesn't deserve to live in comfort
at the country's expense for the rest of his life
(V.C.'s be damned).

To his Wife.

Sunday 27th.
Adv. Dressing Station.

I am up here again — came up last night. Yes-
terday was a day of wearisome waggon loading.
At eight when I was just about beat and turning
in the S.M. bagged me to come up here as waggon
orderly with the horse ambulance. It's about a
three hour job as a rule ; (up, collect cases, and
return) and a job I love as the horse amb. is
" ride driven " from the saddle and the orderly
occupies the high front seat (like an old-fashioned
char-a-banc or horse bus) and gets a fine view of
the country. On a fine evening it is particularly
enjoyable when the reliefs are moving up and the

M

178 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

amunition columns are going and returning, and
the roads near and distant (you can see a long way
over this flat country) are all dotted out with men
and horses and motors : a job I love, but I did
not welcome it yesterday evening, after a spell
of thirty-six hours in my boots especially as on
the ambulance in the evening usually means on
the ambulance — up and down — all night ; gene-
rally by one's own suggestion : it seems such a
pity to turn out some one to take one's place
in the middle of the night, when one is wide awake.
On the way up here though a horse cast a shoe
(the artillery have farriers right up here), the
wounded were all pressed away in the other
ambulances and — the supply from the trenches
ran out ! We were told to wait and, turning in
on the stretchers of the ambulance with ample
blankets, slept till eight this morning with only
one interruption : when a thunderstorm burst
overhead. That was an exciting five minutes
as we had tethered the horses to the wheels
and they and the rain rocked the old bus like a
ship at sea. There was cannonading (out and
in) all night, our own batteries being particularly
strident and the Germans dropping their black
puddings about the place with pleasant little
f pomboms " (the first syllable very short please),
but we slept through it right into the morning.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 179

A poor refugee dog from " — — " that is tied to
a barrel outside our station didn't though. I
heard his wails through my dreams and dreamt
of Emma.

Monday.

Back in " "

Also back in premises of our first
Hospital here.

This is a lark, Dearest ! I am in command of
an army of two. We are the representatives of
the 6th and in lawful possession of our old schools
that we evacuated last Friday, when those scraps
of bombardment came over. The 6th hasn't
left our hospital No. 2 over on the safety side of
the town yet, though A and C sections have
packed their waggons and every other Field Amb.

in " " has cleared out and moved back to

" — — " and now — far from developing — the
bombardment looks hke petering out and we are
longing to get back into these really exceptionally
suitable premises so — ^with the written authority
of the (bow low !) the D. A. D.M.S. here am I a
" Lance Corporal and two men " (vide order) " in
possession" just like a bailiff. Mayhew and
Gait on the Scot are my " men " and they've
both just received enormous parcels. We draw
rations from the Q.M. each day per one man sent
as messenger. I fancy we are going to live some.

i8o WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Tuesday.

We does ! We had lunch in the middle of the
day (omelettes and coffee sent in. Hang Ex-
pense !) and improvised a four course dinner in
the evening : Soup (soup squares), sardines,
steaks (our ration cooked properly) tinned apricots
followed by cafe-au-lait (tinned like condensed
milk — hon) and accompanied by a bottle of vin
rouge (sixpence and a halfpenny on the bottle).

This looks like pic-nicing — and it is — ^but I for
one really needed a rest and a good feed up. I
have done my share of the last fortnight's rush
and a Lance Corporal's share is generally a
biggish one. Three days and three nights at the
Adv. working like a galley slave, two nights as
Corp. of the Guard with extras (by the way my
delirious charge died while I was writing my last
to you. I helped to lay him out — I wanted to ;
curious isn't it ?) four nights as night orderly in
the wards (during two of which I slept, the wards
being nearly empty) and the rest of the time
either working in the operating tent, as pack store
keeper, or loading waggons, unloading them again
and reloading them encore ad lib. da capo ad naus.
Also I am awfully glad to get away from the blood
and bandages and carbolic and perchloride. I
was really happy during the two rushes and nothing

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST i8i

knocked me out — though we saw enough in all
conscience — but these last few days I have been
sickening of blood and wounds. This rest from
it will set me up.

I have sent over to the H.Q. for my things. If
we stay here a few days in peace I shall get to
work on the " Dress Coat " again. One of two
things may happen. The bombardment of the
town may cease altogether in which case the 6th
will come back here, or it may grow worse in which
case we shall be recalled and the 6th will move to
" " altogether.

Later.
We are rather crushed to-day, Darling.
Casualties — our first. Two killed, one injured
(slightly), one suffering from shock. All C.
Section men, but not great friends of mine —
though I liked them. May hew — who knew the
two dead very intimately — is fearfully do^vn :
seems to think he should have been with them.
Curious how people feel, isn't it ? I feel most
for their mothers. Chick — the younger of the
t^^'o — was only nineteen and such a child ; though
very tall. They were all smashed by a shell. I
wish to God England would come into this war
and get it over ! I told you I thought November.
It won't be November twelvemonth unless England

i82 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

drops attacking Kitchener, attacking the Daily
Mail, attacking defenceless Germans in London,
striking and all the rest of it and devotes all its
attention to attacking the German Army out
here. If you at home could only see and hear
the enormous concentration of force necessary
to take a mile of German trench ; the terrific
resistance we have to put up to hold it ; the price
we have to pay over every little failure — a price
paid with no purchase to show for it — if you could
only see and realize these things there 'd be some
hope of you all bucking in and supplying the little
extra force — the little added support in resistance
— that we need to end this murderous, back and
forth business. Every man not engaged in supply-
ing food and warmth and order — bare necessities
— ^to those at home should be directly engaged in
supptying strength toward the ending of the war.
If he isn't doing so he is contributing by neglect
to that killing and maiming of our men out here,
which he might he preventing. I am not exaggerat-
ing an iota. This is mere truth which cannot be
gainsaid. There can be only one reason for not
serving : selfishness. And selfishness at this
time is not the commonsense quahty it is in
ordinary times, since no man is now looking
after himself or could look after himself entirely.
He is part of the crowd which those of its

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 183

complement who are serving are looking after, and
he can no more look after himself than any one of
the men out here can look after himself, but each
can help to look after the crowd and be looked after
in return. The Devil of it is that so many have
slipped into the crowd and are being looked after
in return for nothing. That is the weakness.

I am not shouting for men only to enlist. Enlist
if possible — but at least to register at Labour
Exchanges as willing to do such work as may be
needed — and to learn to do it : to do the rottenest
sort of work if necessary so long as it's useful.
There should be a glut of labour on the market
now instead of a shortage.

Wednesday.
Still here — " resting." It's getting a bit dull.
Your letter just arrived. So sorry you were so
long without hearing from me. I do my best.
You understand surely how we are sometimes
rushed — sometimes posts cut off — sometimes
officers too busy to censor all letters, I expect.

To his Mother-in-law.

May 28th, 1915, Empty Hospital.

Dear Gram.

Thanks very much for your letter. It is
now nearly three weeks since it reached me but

i84 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

j'ou will, I am sure, forgive tardiness in replying :
those three weeks have been so very full of work.

Of course I have no objection to your teaching
Vallie a prayer. Why should I have ? Only
please teach him one thing : that his prayer may
not be answered and that if it isn't, he must not
think that God is cruel or unmindful. " Thy will
be done " is the safety valve in all prayer and a
believer in God must surely think — if they do not
say — those words as a part of every prayer. In
the case of a child I think they should be said.

I would be grateful if you would not muddle his
little brain with trinitarian dogma. I have
nothing against the trinity idea except that it is
puzzling and quite unnecessary. It's alright for
an artist or a mystic — it can have a symbolic
meaning which is most grateful but I think it
should not be taught. One can be a lover of
God without going into the matters of the defini-
tion of Christ ; and all such difficulties. If
Vallie grows up a poet or a mystic, he will fight
into those problems for himself. I would rather
he had the chance to do so unguided. If he is
going to grow up an engineer or a farmer, he will
be no poorer for never having been troubled with
them.

If I don't come home you may — I mean : Please
will you — teach him the Sermon on the Mount

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 185

and " The Lord is my Shepherd "etc., but I have
ahvays looked forw^ard to teaching him these my-
self and still hope to do so — this coming winter too.
I do hope you are not being too greatly dis-
tressed by these confounded newspapers. To
read some of them you might think that in the
middle of an important action, the gunners
suddenly put their hand in their pockets and

found they had run out of shells and " there

falls a sudden silence in the rear." This war is
quite horrible enough — I dare say to your imagina-
tion it is quite as ghastly as it is to our ej^es and
ears and noses — quite horrible enough without the
papers harrowing the feelings of you poor dears at
home by suggesting that this or that could have
been prevented. It is the most appalling thought
possible, isn't it ? It's all very well for them to be
wise after this or that mistake, but I do not
believe that any combination of human minds
could have foreseen more than has been foreseen
by the authorities. I met a sniper the other day
who had had to desist owing to something going
wrong with his loophole. " If I'd only had a bit
of forked stick " he kept on saying " I could have
done in a hundred of 'em." I suppose it might be
called lack of foresight that he had not supplied
himself with a bit of forked stick before going in —
still .

i86 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Au revoir (soon I hope — though with no ground).
We — our Ambulance — has turned out such a
success that we get more than our own Brigade's

work to do. We have had to lend the s a

hand when they mislaid their Field Amb., and
though originally we M^ere under orders to send on
very serious cases demanding operation to No —
and officers to No — we have lately been doing
all the work that came in ourselves " Officers,"
"Very Serious's/' " Moribunds." "Sitting,"
" Medical " " Allymangs " " Scabies," " Shocks,"
every kind of case except infectious : measles
and the like — very little about — they go to a
special hosp. by special motors never used for
anything else.

To his Wife.

May 29th.

I should like some more tobacco.

You need never worry at not hearing from me
Dear, you would be immediately informed if the
slightest accident happened to me. Also I am
not one of the careless ones, and take no
chances.

I am longing to see my little boy in his sailor
suit.

Bless him and you.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 187

To his Mother,

ist June. 1915.

Dearest Mater,

Things have quieted down now — only
aeroplanes and anti-aircraft guns with occasional,
very occasional, five minutes of shelling disturb
the town. After the inferno which raged " out
there " for the last two weeks the result of which
you have seen by the papers, (it looks little
enough but has cost both sides the most enormous
efforts and really signifies much), the comparative
calm is almost uncanny. Men of this or that
battalion are wandering aimlessly about the
streets, getting arrears of food into them, and
losing slowly the strained and distrait manner
that their experiences have engendered. Our
Territorial Batts. have done M^onders. Every
one is marvelling at them. The general has told
them that they will in future be called " veteran
fighters." From what I've seen I really believe
that the Londoners are equal, man for man, to
any soldiers in Europe, in everything except
subordination. There are such stories going as it
would do you good to hear. — Example : of little
so and so — kid of nineteen {he says : not more than
seventeen really) — nipper " so high " — marching in
a Prussian Guardsman with whiskers like old

i88 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Tirpitz — down — oh, down to (indication of beard
reaching to abdomen) fetching him out of a dug
out — (gesture suggesting pulHng a surly dog out
of a barrel) and jabbing him along — (illustration
first of the nipper with rifle and bayonet, then of
the Prussian who was about six feet two I under-
stand, waddling along, head down and hands up).
There's no getting away from it we are a success.
Fighters, medicals, and all. But oh, my dear,
the men who have been buried out here ! Such
splendid chaps. Why do the best ones all get
done in ? I met a — th man a friend, after their
charge — two days after it — I had been hearing of
this man and that one gone of those I had known
best in the batt. and I believe I shook hands with
him for five minutes — which surprised nobody.
The little ginger headed chap whose hand gave
me so much trouble at Hatfield was first to go in
the charge of that batt. A bomb finished him.
Other old patients and friends went — or came
back here with greater or lesser wounds. One
with his breath whistling in and out of a hole
between his shoulders — I saw him out delirious
and comfortable with plenty of morphia in him.
I can stick anything but depressed fracture of the
skull. A man died in one of the wards here of
that, — Galton watching him. He had the ward
to himself (they make such a noise) and a mouse

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 189

came out and ran back and forth under the
stretcher he was tied to. Galton called me to
watch ; he was quite fascinated. These things
almost please one by their very perfection of
eeriness and horror. Do you understand ? They
are like the works of some gigantic supernatural
artist in the grotesque and horrible. I shall
never fear the picturesque in stage grouping again.
Never have I seen such perfect grouping as when,
after a shell had fallen round the comer from here
a fortnight ago, three of us rushed round and the
light of an electric torch lit up a little interior
ten feet square, with one man sitting against the
far wall, another lying across his feet and a dog
prone in the foreground, all dead and covered
evenly with the dust of powdered plaster and
masonry brought down by the explosion ! They
might have been grouped so for forty years —
not a particle of dust hung in the air, the white
light showed them, pale whitey brown, like a
terra-cotta group. That they were dead seemed
right and proper — but that they had ever been
alive — beyond all credence. The fact that I had
seen them " mount guard " was in another depart-
ment of experience altogether and never occurred
to me till some days after.

Of all the curious things of war the most curious
is the way my old problems of perception,

190 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

experience, and apprehension ; their relation
to reahty — the way those problems are being
lit up. We have some really brilliant men among
our officers. One in particular who — ^not deeming
himself a surgeon (pure swank — he was going to
perform a trephinning without turning a hair —
but such swank is most sympathique, isn't it ?)
generally acts as anaesthetist, is often most
illuminating with a word here or there just when
one is wondering — as one can in the middle of
holding down a half-anaesthized and very energetic
Scot or Guardsman — just what feeling is and
what consciousness ; how there can be degrees
down from our normal to zero and if there can be
degrees up as well — you follow ? — to some zenith
of apprehensiveness to existence. Of course the
normal capacity for perception fluctuates a little.
Has it any limits up as it obviously has down ? —
at ^^wconsciousness ? The devil of it is that an
imaginative projection can be so easily mistaken
for a conception the result of higher sensitiveness
— perceptiveness. So many of the mystics seem
to me to have been merely people gifted with ima-
ginations. The Bronte sister perhaps — what was
her name ? — and Wordsworth and A. E. and Evelyn
Underbill genuine exceptions, the rest — most of
them — imaginative. "Thrysus bearers," casting
their imaginings in the form of active experience.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 191

We are still — three of us — alone in the old
hospital. Since things have quieted do\\Ti, men
off duty have taken to dropping in for a laugh !
We are the star j oke of the to^\^l. It is a ridiculous
situation, isn't it ?— I never thought when I
joined that I should ever put in a week as care-
taker. If Messieurs les Bosches would only either
get the range and dent these buildings slightly
or give up trying altogether so that the ambulance
would either give up the idea of returning or com.e
back and done with it. I want some exercise.

By the way, let me assure you of one thing.
I am taking the greatest care of myself — ^no
collecting souvenirs under fire for me. I am not
particularly nervous — in fact I have not yet been
badly frightened, but I have been struck cautious
— if you know what I mean — every timie I have
been anywhere where caution was necessar}-. I do
not even share the rather popular (with the infants)
desire for a slight wound "just enough to get
you a fortnight at home." I want to stick the
war out usefully and unostentatiously — but, oh,
I hope it'll end this year. It will — or not — just
according to the energy concentrated by you
people at home on the one job of piling up shells,
guns, clothes, food, men, bombs, motors, horses,
and delivering them to the right spot at the right
moment. Oh, — and you can devote some energy

192 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

too to inventing a gas ten times as beastly as the
German product and a means of projecting it four
times as far.
Au revoir.

3rd June, 1915.

Dearest Mater,

I knew 3'ou'd hear summat of that Zep. raid.
Yes, there isn't much " ping " to a bomb explosion,
is there ? Unless it's quite close to you and then
it seems to hit you gently all over at once with a
wad of cotton wool and you are surprised after-
wards to find your ears singing : at least that's
how shells sound. For real tremendous per-
cussive, metalic bangs give me our naval guns.
My first experience : — It was at " i," the
ruined townlet we went to first (about five miles
south of that we know so well which — though
quite thoroughly ruined — has not suffered as
" I," has). We were introduced to German
shrapnel, falling about four to six hundred yards
away, as soon as we arrived, and remarked how
little noise the actual explosion made — the scream
of the shell beforehand being really much more
poignant and nerve ratling — (the German gun
that despatched them being, you understand,
anything about 5000 to 10,000 yards off and
practically inaudible, above the general rumble).

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 193

Perhaps twenty had screamed up and pom bomped
themselves each into a growing puff of smoke
when CRASH ! Sousa, thirty thousand extra
trombones each with a cannon cracker inside,
thunder, echoes and Hghtning. We all shrugged
(this is exactly what we did) till our shoulder
widths were reduced by about fifty per cent, and
our necks were submerged to the ears and our
elbows grated against our ribs. Then, when we
were expanded again, the Sergt. of Regulars, who
was acting as our guide told us it was only one of
our nine-point-two's a matter of half a mile
away ! Phew !

The last time I went up to the line (a week ago
now) we had, Lord knows how many, of all sizes
from mountain guns and 18 pounders, up to the
9-2S all at it constantly and villainously and really
half of us came back with a mild stammer or
twitch in the middle of every other word. You
understand that our dressing station (advanced)
and the regimental aid posts are much nearer
to the big guns than the trenches are. They
rarely place a battery within a thousand yards
of the trenches and some are three times that
distance behind them. The zone is enormous.
Take this town which is inhabited and also full of
troops. It is about five miles west of "2."
Two or three miles east of which the new trenches

N

194 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

now lie. Nobody here seems to know exactly
where we have pushed to on the general front.
Only the " Umpth " know that they took so
many lines. The " Oothies " that they took all
there were and had to lie on their tummies in the
open (while the Germans did the same 500 yards
off) and dig themselves in under fire. And some
other Batts. that they only took one line because
some other unprintable barstards didn't support
them or got in their way or something disgraceful
and cowardly and unmatey. (It's a treat to hear
these Batts. curse each other. I believe many a
trench has been held because to give it up would
expose the holding battalion to recriminations
from their brothers in support or on the L. or R.
who would certainly come up and retake it " just
for the sake of laughing at us," said one Corporal
to me of the co. which had retaken the trench
his CO. had at last retired from.)

Well — this town is, as I say, from five to seven
miles behind the firing line, yet shells fall here
daily. The road all the way up to the trenches
is under fire here and there (and you never quite
know where when you set out) at nearly any given
moment. "2 " (from which our last advance
was pushed up) with the line two miles away is
supplying more casualties than it and with the
trenches passing its back door — more, I daresay,

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 195

than the trenches themselves just now. It is
the name spot for that neighbourhood but really
it is nothing more now. Nothing to do there but
duck and run. Nothing to eat but bully and
biscuit. I have only been east of it a few times
but I felt safer out in the open there than in the
remains of the to\\'n. Not that I felt what you
might call safe even there.

To his Son.

June 3rd, 1915.

My dear Sweet little Man.

Thank you ever so much for the picture
and the thingumy you put into the parcel for me.
I was very very glad to get them. Mummy tells
me you wanted to send Cocky Oily Bird but she
thought better not. I'm rather sorry because I'd
have Hked Cock Oily Bird to come out here very
much indeed. Next time Mummy's sending a
parcel you ask her to find room for him. You
can give him a kiss to bring out to me.

How is the office getting on ? If the office boys
all leave to go to the front why don't yoi. engage
an office-girl ? Of course they can't play cricket
so well as office boys and very few of them can
whi-^tle properly, but you can't have everything
in war time.

196 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

I'm told I'm to have a photo of you in your new
sailor suit. I hope it will be just exactly like you.
I want to see what my Vallie looks like after all
these months — nearl}/ three my darling — since I
saw him last. But oh, my dear little man, it's
going to be a lot more than three months more
before I see you again ! These Germans won't be
pushed ! We shove and we shove and they only
go such a very little way back after we've been
shoving for weeks. Still they always do go a
little wa3^ And many littles make a lot in the
end — when it comes.

Will you please dictate a letter to Mummy for
me. Mummy will tell j^ou how it's done : you
say " Dear Doody " and she writes it down and
then you go on as if you were talking to me and
she writes all that down, and then when you've
said all you can {lots) you kiss the end of the
letter and mark the spot with a cross.
Bless 3'ou my boy

Your

Loving

Doody

His kiss X.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 197

To his Wife.

June 4th, 1915,

Well my dear, we've been married live years
to-day ; and what's your opinion of married life ?
Fairly stirring it's been ; hasn't it ? You ill
twice, me ill once, Vallie ill once (you see I am
not counting mumpses). Us burnt out once ;
Shaftesbury Avenue, Glasgow (assorted), Victoria
Square, St. John's Wood— plenty of variety in
our settings — and now you grubbing along on
short rations and me — what the devil am I
doing ? At the moment I am Caretaker-Com-
mandant (rank my own invention) of the Ecoles

M feeding well, sleeping well and getting

absolutely no exercise or excitement. Parts of
the buildings are at present occupied by a company

of the 's out of the trenches for a few days

rest. They are a tough lot of old regulars, most
of them west countr}^ or Welsh, who have been
out here since October ; high spirited and rowdy
but (like all the British out here) models of
behaviour where women are concerned (by which
I do not mean saints) and adored to the verge
of being turned into hobnailed Juggernauts by
all the children they come across. Our men also
make a great impression here by their genuine affec-
tion for dogs. The poor beasts are abominably
treated by the lower classes and ignored by the

198 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

upper of this town and district. As a matter
of fact they are rather beastly to their children,

too ; and as for horses

Curiously enough the favourite accusation
against them at home — that of " doing the
troops down " — is not true. Certain things are
villainously expensive : — razor blades ; tobacco ;
brushes, and other manufactured trifles, but the
people themselves — especially in the villages —
will frequently refuse all payment for coffee,
bread and butter or even — though less frequently
■ — eggs. I never go up to the A.D.S. now without
calling on the one peasant family still living in
that stirring neighbourhood and taking coffee
(au lait) and galette (quite different to Galette
Bernevalaise) with them for which they religiously
refuse all payment. I tried to tip the family
brat a half franc the last time up. It was rescued
and returned to me with insult. These people
have been all but ruined : their larger fields all
shell holes ; half their out buildings and windows
demolished by the reverberations of our artillery
and carelessness of troops billeted therein (chiefly
the former I am glad to say) and the railways and
canals they depend upon torn up or full of strange
craft and running into the enemy lines. They
are far from hopeless, though. The enemy will
have to pay, they say.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 199

I made a foolish mistake early in this letter : —
" no excitement." I had a little yesterday —
nothing much but a little. Coming back from
my daily visit to H.Q. whizz bang whizz bang
whizz bang — bang — the fourth so close on the
heels of the third that the whizz was lost (that's
when I take a dislike to them : no fair warning)
and a square about as far ahead of Mayhew and
myself as from 85 Talbot Road to the letter box
was neatly dented in each corner. We retired
round a house (the range was along the road)
until the " bombardment " seemed over, then
hurried up. First sight ; a tall sergeant taking
do^\^l his trousers coram populo to inspect the
damage to his posterior aspect — not great. We
advised him where our hospital (and a drink) were
waiting for such as he, and proceeded with the
usual job of locating the old woman and stopping
the bleeding until an ambulance arrived (Mayhew
went for it at once).

She was in the back room of the house before
which the shell had fallen, her feet on a chair and
her poor loose old stockings dripping nice bright
arterial blood on to the stone floor. An unusual
complication, son mart was sitting on the stairs
(which ^^•ere in the room) his eyes rolled up —
curious pale grey eyes — suffering from our old
friend " shock " and also bleeding like a stuck pig.

200 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

A gas pipe had been severed and the neighbour-
hood was discussing " le gaz " ; of course missing
the obvious reason for the smell that pervaded it.
A regular, an officer and myself got ourselves nice
and bloody and dabbed the old lady and son mari
(whom she kept discussing) with water : he came
unshocked suddenly and took to weeping, then
Mayhew and the ambulance returned and we
bandy-chaired them out to stretchers and slid
them in and cursed the assembling crowd and
went home to tea.

Nice story isn't it ? With variations any
day's story of this pleasant sunny and prosperous
little city. Sometimes the old woman is killed
outright ; sometimes she has a leg blown off and
dies on the way to, or after reaching, hospital ;
sometimes she is accompanied thither by a smashed
child or two — more rarely by a man — more rarely
still by a soldier. Occasionally she mingles her
pint or two of blood with the more generous supply
tapped from a horse. Very occasionally you find
her searching herself rapidly and reporting with
natural surprise — in view of the fact that she
certainly is an old woman — that she hasn't been
touched. Sometimes this that or the other is
her share but always she has one. She is the old
woman of the day to be added to the list of all
the old women of last week and the week before.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 201

The joke of it all is that old women have no
Military significance.

Love to you all.

Don't be horrified at me— I must sarcast a
little when I feel that way.

June 9th, 1915.

Dearest

We are back in the fold having left our
caretaker's job (with the usual mihtary sudden-
ness) yesterday afternoon. It wasn't bad fun
for the first few days but deadly for the greater
part of the time. Sorry to hear you have had
flu. Curiously ; I was verging on a touch a few
days ago, usual headache backache etc. but no,
temperature so I didn't report sick.

There are the usual crops of rumours here about
our next move.

Tuesday.

And now here I am in " " a few miles

from the last place. We have all moved here-
abouts and after going to sleep in various comers
I have reported sick. Sprung a temperature of
100-3 3-i^d ^^ ^^w learning to appreciate a Field
Amb. from a new point of view. It's nothing
serious just summer flu or something — about half
a dozen of us are dovm with it. Please don't
worry one bit.

202 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Wednesday.

Temperature dropped to ioo-2 so you see I am
doing well. Forgive short letter, not easy to
write l3'ing on a stretcher.

June nth, 1915.

I am " up " to-day. Still feeling pretty groggy
but temperature falling steadily (99 this morning).
The head and back aches are both much more
endurable. Lieut. Dixon is for sending me back
to a "Convalescent Company" for a bit but
I'm dead against the idea, I'm so afraid of
getting cut off from the 6th and going drifting
about France attached to some amiable party of
laundresses or bath attendants.

To his Mother.

June 14th, 1915.

Dearest Mater

I am out of hospital at last : " discharged "
in the official parlance. And now to sort out
the last ten days and report what's been happening.

We, (Maj-hew, Galton and Self) were recalled
from our caretaking job on Saturday. We
arrived at headquarters and new hospital in time
to take part in a perfect orgy of packing during
which a headache and general feeling of let-me-lie-
down-some where that I had been enjoying for

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 203

some days, nearly knocked me out. However,
I stuck it and carried on until Monday when I
went with the advance party which accompanied
the waggons on the move. It was only a five
mile march here but it quite knocked me out.
After an ineffectual attempt to lend a hand with
the unpacking I " went sick " and, showing a
sudden temperature of loi, was put into one of
the newly improvised wards. That was the
beginning of m}^ travels. We gave up that
building the next morning and I was juggled into
an ambulance and brought here (about three
minutes run distant). Once here I was carried
up stairs and brought do^\'n again and moved into
that room and brought back again. Altogether
I have experienced six moves in a five days'
illness.

This is a middle sized mining to\\Ti. Rather
prosperous — but nearer to the front line than we
have yet had a main dressing station. A. and C.
sections are working it together while B. is
working another station further south as far as I
can gather, but I am not sure.

A lot of the boys are down with " flu " (we call
it " flu "). In more ways it is like a mild heat
stroke. The sudden spell of hot weather was
very trying, and we get no regular exercise) and
several of them have been evacuated. They

204 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

wanted to evacuate me, but I was not favourable
to the idea.
Bye Bye.

To his Son.

June 14th, 1915.

Vallie, my blessed, thank you ever so much for
your nice letter. I was very glad to get the CO.
Bird mth the kiss on his beak and I am taking
the greatest possible care of him but I warn you
I find him very difficult, and if I do come back
without him, please understand that he will be
quite as much to blame as I shall.

To begin with he arrived just as I was packed up

to leave " " and come here and I had to

squeeze him into my haversack on top of Nanty
Lai's tobacco and the asparagus. I buttoned him
in but he popped his head out of the corner of the
haversack and watched everything that was going
on till some one said he was the Eye Witness — and
then on the March I lost him ! I was awfully
upset — but he turned up a couple of miles further
on sitting on one of the waggons. I had been on
the waggon tying on some loose boxes and the
faithful creature must have seen me there, and
when he got loose found his way to the place where
he had last seen me.

He lived under my tunic and trousers — ^that is

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 205

to say under my pillow while I was ill and he must
have had a very dull time because I was no sort
of company : — couldn't smoke or eat or talk or
do anything friendl}'. Now he looks after my
pack when I'm out on duty and has breakfast amd
supper with me.

We have all had big parcels from the Red Cross
Society with a shirt, a pair of socks, and brush and
comb, sponge, razor and chocolate. The chocolate
is from Queen Alexandra. I dunno who sent the
rest exactly.

Oh Vallie — I do hope you will still like being
sung to sleep when I come back and not be too
big a boy to be carried sometimes. You were
such a dear when I went away, just right — try to
keep as nice till I come back and pra}'' that it
may be soon.

Love to you dear from your Doody.

To his Wife.

June 15th, 1915.

My Darling

Another day and no letter — I am awfully
distressed. I keep picturing all sorts of horrors,
I never did trust Brighton as a place for a young
grass widow. Do write and tell me Vallie is
alright and you are still as usual etc. I don't

2o6 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

like your going to seaside towns at all — and now
not hearing from 3^ou for all these days. Oh for
goodness sake write ! I am so miserable. You
have lengthened the intervals between letters
steadily two letters in seven days while I was at
the caretaking job, two in nine now. It'll be
two in ten if you don't write to-morrow. Do you
think I shouldn't have joined ?

I am returned to hospital — my rash is the only
trouble now but it is persistent. I am to be
isolated until it makes up it's mind what to be.
/ know what it is. Too much meat not enough
vegs, and no exercise, beside rough flannel shirts
and perspiration.

June i8th, 1915.

We are jogging on here, forty or fifty, cases a
day : perhaps a dozen wounded the rest the usual
assorted. After the rushes we have so success-
fully weathered, it is rather dull and monotonous.
The men are getting fearfully impatient (as always
during a lull) and talk of the summer slipping
away, and the Hkelihood of another winter in
the trenches, etc. The less intelligent majority
persist in measuring our progress by the distance
advanced, and cannot see that war and Geo-
graphical aggrandisement are not quite the same
thing. It is quite possible that we shall slog at a

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 207

line for months, and then find one day that the
war's over and the hard fight across Belgium and
Germany " off." It's up to the enemy. They
could impose that couple of hundred mile advance
upon us if they chose or they can impose this
system of holding us up at all costs upon them-
selves. Were I the German General Staff I
should fall back to a line Antwerp-Liege and
Rhine right along to Bale, while j-et I could
safely do so only holding Antwerp and that slice
of conquered country but the}' seem to prefer to
hold on, though I am convinced their present
line is more difficult to hold and they may be so
weakened on it that no other first class stand will
ever be possible to them. In the same way this
enormous offensive in Galicia may cost them the
Carpathians before Christmas. It looks to me as
if political considerations influenced the German
General Staff far more than is good for it. Every
General up to now who has allowed politics to
impose upon strategy has gone under. Napoleon
III is the classic example but there are many
others.

Isn't this Italian progress tremendously cheer-
ing ? Of course they have not yet met a first
class resistance but to advance through such
country even unopposed would be a test of mobility
in which to show up well would be a feather in

2o8 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

any Country's cap and they have been by no
means unopposed.

When am I to have that photo of Vahie ? It's
getting on for two weeks since it was mentioned.
You haven't by any chance sent it off, have you ?
You do not number your letters so I am often
worried by fear that one has gone astray. I have
only had two from you written since you went to
Brighton ten days ago.

Bye bye. Love to my brat.

To his Mother.

June 19th, 1915.

Dearest,

Apropos of the " long time away," a
curious thing : I made the discovery yesterday
that unless I can leave a nice well finished off war
behind me I don't want to come home. This in
spite of the fact that I am regularly and miserably
homesick for at least half an hour every morning,
and two hours every evening and heartily fed
up with the war every waking hour in between.
Never-the-less when yesterday to the rumour that
certain parts of our division which have been
rather badly knocked about were going home,
was added the rumour that the rest of the Div.
was going too, to continue as a Home Service

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 209

Batt, I found myself absolutely horrified at the
idea. To go home now and mess about at
Hatfield and St. Albans ! Or to go home even to
VaUie and his Mummy is not what I want yet.
I want from the bottom of my heart to see it out.
Of course the sooner " out " the better, and I'd
give my teeth for a week's leave, but I don't
want to be away from the work — even my in-
significant share of it — ^permanently or for long.

I am hurrying to catch post.

Love and thanks again.

To his Wife.

June 20th, 1 915.

My Darling

We are still here ; in the mining town. It
improves on acquaintance ; many decent caf6s
and the usual small farms where omelettes, caf6
au lait, pommes-frits and other luxuries can be
obtained. I am living beyond my pay having
developed a great distaste for army food since my
spell of illness. I still have a little reserve
though, and probably another spell at the A.D.S
soon will give me a chance to economise.

Mayer's dainties and the asparagus were most
successful. By the way, never send me anything
in the form of Bovril or Oxo. Our fellows are
loaded up with it and we don't want it — we get
too much meat as it is. Oh ! for vegetables 1

o

210 ^^'AR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Say : you ma}^ be reached by idle rumours that
the 2nd London Div. may or will come home
sooner or later. Don't take any notice. These
rumours get about without perceptible founda-
tion and are only unsettling. It is most unlikely
that we shall get further back than a base for a
little rest and moreover it is more than likely
that if the Div. moves back we — the 6th — will
be attached to some other brigade and the 4th
and 5th look after the Div. in its retirement. No
other Territorial Field Amb. stands as high with
the Powers as we do, and we are at full strength
and in no great need of a rest yet.

Bless you.

June 22nd, 1915.

Dearest,

I am sorry I was a pig in my letter. It
wasn't premeditated. Of course without actually
experiencing it you cannot realise the misery of
home sickness one can feel out here. It's want
of you, want of Vallie, want of all my friends,
want of my books and work, all rolled into one
and aggravated by intense discomfort and constant
annoyance and the haunting uncertainty as to
when it will end. I think in November, but in
bad moments I can find ample reason for thinking
not perhaps till November twelve month or
perhaps — for me — ^never. Grrrr !

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 21 r

Don't be alarmed — I am only excusing my
grumpyness by telling you my worst humps which
I assure you always afflict me on days when I
have had no letter.

Tobacco is ruinously expensive here. Franc
an ounce for ordinary Nav}^ Cut ! If you will
send me a quarter pound of either John Cotton
medium or coarse cut Craven or some good mild
to medium flake such as Dimhills stock once a
fortnight I shall be most grateful. I expect I
shall be having an economic time at the advanced
dressing station again soon. I'm sure I hope so.
It's much more fun up there. We have a new
Adv. now, a gorgeous place in a chateau only
partly ruined, with fruit ripening in the garden
and even vegetables. At present I am living
beyond my pay every day but reserves are not
yet used up. Don't you think I have done pretty
well since I have been out here ? Your Mother
has sent me a quid. I have managed on that
and my pay for — now — fourteen weeks and I still
have something in hand. I shouldn't crow before
I'm out of the — town — though : the constant
temptation of omelettes de deux oeufs et " frits "
(otherwise fried potatoes) and fancy pastries may
ruin me yet. I always thought it should be "d
deux oeufs " by the way. By the way I should
like that clay pipe in its case when you go

212 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

to the flat next, try to get it for me there's
a dear.

I am chock full of ideas for plays of all shapes
and sizes, and the old habit of lying awake and
getting quite excited over the working out of a plot
is coming back to me. I haven't done it since
we left Shaftesbury Avenue — ^not since " Elaine "
was on the stocks. If only this war will end
before I am quite abruti (is that how you spell it),
I believe I shall come home to work. One thing
I am getting thinner and I'm sure I work best
thin. You mustn't overfeed me when I come
home. I don't long to be over fed — but oh I do
long for nice food and well served food — pillaff,
rairogli, macaroni dishes, vol-au-vents, sweet-
breads, your omelettes, strawberries, raspberries,
gooseberry fool, ices, sole Dieppoise, salmon,
turbot, kippers (Oh for a kipper !) soups. Also
I'd love an oyster or two — or twenty. I've told
you we can get excellent wine here at sixpence a
litre haven't I ? Very light wine of course, but
none the worse for that. We are no longer
offered that confounded rum issue, and I'm glad
of it. It always meant a noisy night.

Have I warned you against rumours — Yes I
believe I have. Beware of them, especially
rumours of peace. We don't want peace till they're
beaten, do we ?

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 213

By the way — I wonder if your mother would
like to send us a decent cricket bat, a good second
hand one for pref, but a good one. We have two
home made ones in the unit wherewith the
patients and ourselves disport themselves from
after tea till dark. I'm sure we'd be awfully
grateful for one. Put it to her will you ?

Bye bye. Heaps of love my Sweetheart —
don't worry if I'm nasty. I do get such humps
and I do so love every word you write. God bless
you.

To his Son.

Vallie you villain what's this I hear about your
visit to Brighton ? Swanking in the Hotel about
having cut the Kaiser into little bits and put him
down the dust shoot. Swank Sir, you never did
nothink of the sort. He's still bossing Germany
and giving us no end of trouble. You must have
cut up somebody else by mistake. You really
should look before you chop.

Bye bye, my darling little man. I love you most
muchly much. How do you like me ?

Your

DOODY.

Please answer by dictation. I'd like a letter
a week from you.

214 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

To his Mother.

June 25th, 1915.

Dearest Mater

No, please don't send me any money.
Things are quite cheap here. In fact I have
hmched out every day for the last fortnight, and
had the usual evening coffee and biscuits also
on very little more than my pay of one and five-
pence a day, and I have a reserve of funds in my
pay book. By the way I haven't tasted meat for
nearly a fortnight. (I lunch on an omelette de
trois ceufs and chip potatoes daily) and only
twice in the last four weeks. This is not a fad.
I simply don't like the look of it. If ever it
appeals to me again I shall return to it — or if I
go up to the adv. I shall have to I suppose.

The rumour, I beg your pardon, official thing-
ummj^ 3^ou report is, I hope, quite unfounded.
Don't listen to peace talk yet, — discourage it if
you can. Nothing makes us madder out here.
Remember we are on the wrong side of the top
to talk of peace. It's a worse idea than the war !
A patch-up with those bloody gentry over there.
Do you realise that I can see one of them now ?
a little speck in the heart of a " Taube " with a
row of little puffs of soft cloud miraculously
appearing with pin-prick like twinkles rather than

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 215

flashes about hiiii ; the shrapnel fired by our
anti-aircraft guns ; busy " keeping him off." I
can hear them in the distance too, (or it may be
some distant part of our line at work) and at any
moment a couple of rough crosses may be carried
past the gate I am sitting on, carried by children
and followed by a temporary hearse, a burying
party of long bayonets and loose trousers and the
usual following of children. No peace until we
are on top please.

Love.

To his Wife.

June 23tb, 1915.

Dearest

I am so sorry. I see by your letter I have
given you quite an exaggerated idea of my rash.
I was never put into an isolation hospital at all. I
was only put out to sleep in a tent until it had
made up its mind whether it would be German
measles or scabies or what. I carried on my
duties just as usual (not during the high tempera-
ture, influenza ^rs^ spell, of course — I mean during
the second spell in " hospital ") except that I
was excused 6 o'clock in the morning parade and
had a daily bath in its place after which I rubbed
myself with sulphur ointment.

2i6 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

The rash has now neither developed any
recognisable peculiarities nor altogether departed.
Anyhow I have been discharged from " hospital."
I think I must make up my mind to a continuation
of it through the hot weather. Army shirts are
very rough and army blankets rougher. Also we
do not get enough regular exercise (either a spell
of hard labour or a spell of confinement within
a space of a hundred odd yards by ditto) I think
the latter starts the rash and the former irritates
and increases it. I'm not by several dozen the
only man in the 6th who itches o'nights. Of
course there are fleas, bugs and lice to do their
share, but none of us are actually lousy though
most have caught a few on their clothes or
bodies. I for one have — ^nasty white bodied, slow
crawling creatures — ugh ! I found mine on a
body belt issued to me from store — I burnt it
forthwith. My tummy was badly bitten though.
Beasts !

Do you know I am coming to regard our
habitance of Vic Square as the black months of
my life — I mean since we were married. I never
felt mentally alert there : no initiative. I believe
if the w^ar had come along while we were there I
should never have joined — Oh apropos — and
in reply to your letter. I am very glad I did
join. It's only the thought of poor dear you

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 217

stuck in a poky little flat without enough money
and that great tiring blessing on your hands
makes me wonder if I did right.

My letters are not so newsy as they were are
they ? Old news over again is the order of the
day. One " hospital " is very much Uke another
(of course we don't run a hospital at all really.
This like the places back in Bethune is just a
main dressing station). We keep scaby cases a
few days and any minor illnesses like my little
go of flu — or whatever it was — also for a few days
and a few only (they wanted to evacuate me) all
wounded or cases hkely to last over a couple of
days we evacuate per daily convoy to the clearing
hospital, whence they go on to the stationary or
general hospitals at the bases or even to England.
We have no beds or nurses (latter not allowed into
the shell zone at all). Personally I think our
orderlies are just as good as nurses. They were
splendid to me as far as lay in their power. I
didn't want anything but water and sleep. They
couldn't get me any water the first night. We had
just arrived here you understand and had only a
little in the ^^'ater bottles which was quickly used
up. The water cart (I believe) went astray and
local water is condemned until it has passed
through the cart which is really an enormous
tank and filter. They went to great trouble to

2i8 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

boil water for me though and by morning it was
cold and drinkable.

Don't worry about the Russian reverse, dearest.
It's costing Germany more than it has been worth
to them yet and even if they regain Lemberg
unless they also disorganise the Russian army
they will be no better off than they were a month
ago on the strategic view^ of the situation and
rather worse on the economic. Of course if they
can put the Russian army out of action — but
it's a mighty big if — we shall have a bad time all
round for some time to come — and I shan't get
home this year but even then we shall beat them
in the end and beat them to a frazzle.

God bless you my dearest — keep your pecker
up and make every one you can stop subscribing
to charities and buy war loans.

I love you very much more now than I used to
and I v/asn't joking about grass widows — but I
didn't mean anj/thing silty.

June 27th, 1915.
Dearest

I am so sorry about the use of that word
" isolation." Use has robbed it of all sinister
meaning to us. We " isolate " anything sus-
picious — ^scabies, pediculie (otherwise lice) any
old thing. I suppose if I had said I was to be

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 219

evacuated you wouldn't have thought much of it
whereas it would have meant I was much worse.
Things are still very monotonous. I got a
run over to B. Section station the other night.
The Jack Johnson's had found a neighbouring
billet and a short but heavy rush was the result.
Fearing it would prove worse than it did — (the
J. J.s can't have known the damage they were
doing as they dropped only a few shells and then
rang off. Some said the French 75's " found "
them — I never heard). The M.O. there sent a
car over to us with a request for a couple of extra
N.C.O.'s and Imms and myself were dispatched
— ^not altogether to our joy. 1.30 a.m. is an
unenthusiastic time to be routed out. Arriving
at B. Section station we got the surprise of our
lives. It's in a little, now rather battered, mining
village and it looks a palace at first sight. One
lofty well proportioned room ; at the far end a
dark curtained stage ; with rows of beds — beds
my dear ! — and the diffused lighting coming
from hidden ledges and reflecting on the arched
ceiling. It turns out that the mining village is
a model mining \dllage and the " station " is the
theatre built for the miners in happier times (in
most excellent taste ; about the size and pro-
portions of Prince's ground floor room otherwise
reminiscent of the Little Theatre) and the beds

220 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

are accounted for by the fact that the French are
running one of their amazing hospitals — ^under
fire there. We are sharing it with them. You
can imagine our surprise, can't you ? expecting
the usual outhouse or barn with straw on the
floor and a couple of candles ; an M.O. and his
orderlies stepping over one patient to reach the
next ; a musty damp straw cum drying blood
smell ; blankets instead of doors and windows ; a
smoky wood fire outside on which a dixie of tea,
or perhaps Oxo, stews — expecting this and
finding a lofty, exquisitely lit, pleasant hospital
palace.

I am rapidly regaining old form. Sleep well
again and good appetite. We have had some very
welcome rain but the Sun puts in a good many
hours a day and flies are increasing. We do
everything possible to keep them down. It is a
punishable offence to leave food about or throw
it away except on to the incinerator, and we use
heaps of lime and disinfectant fluid. The health
of the troops is really marvellous — but the bad
months are to come. I shall be glad to see August
over. Wherever we advance the enemy leave us a
filthy mess. I suppose we don't give them time
to tidy up before clearing out. Moreover they
always shell any trenches they evacuate so fiercely
that we can't do much more than get the wounded

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 221

out. There are several No Man's Lands about
behind our lines but almost unapproachable.

One at " " we call Smelly Farm will be a

plague centre if it isn't cleared up soon. I believe
we have done something in the burying and lime
strewing line there since I personally smelt it last.
You can bet on one thing : the authorities are
awake and doing all they can, and — what is even
more important — the men appreciate the im-
portance of all the precautions possible. This is
what counts. However fine the authorities and
however energetic they cannot watch all the men
all the time, I am disposed to hope that the
Germans (who seem to be much less clean
habitually in spite of all their discipline and
experts) will suffer some in the hot weather.

Don't hope to see me home on leave for some
time yet, dearest. There are Divisions who have
been out here for six months who should get
ordinary leave before us. The only leave going,
special leave, only granted on the plea of urgent
private business. Sergeant Burrows has got
three days : his mother has just died. The S.M.
has the same on some business reason. So you
see without a good business or domestic reason
I cannot get leave. In the ordinary course of
events I shan't get any for months, see ?
Heaps of love.

222 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

P.S. I have been the recipient of many com-
plaints about the way the press is booming 's

tardy joining of the A.S.C. Strangers in the
BattaHons only knowing me by sight have
sought me out to explain to me that it's " things
like that " that give the stage a bad name. As
long as he didn't join nobody worried about him
(except a few silly white feather distributors)
now he makes it look as if he were the only
" pro " who ever joined the armj*. It's too bad.
There are hosts of us out here (I met Millar
Anderson — now a Sergeant in the London Irish
the other day) and this one pup joining the
A.S.C. half way through the war (I bet he never
sees a shell burst and doesn't want to) discredits
the whole trade.

To his Mother.

June 27th, 1915.
Dearest Mater

I'll tell you what you can send me : a list
of the vols, m the Home University Library ; a
list of the vols, in that series of one shilling or
one shilling and sixpenny Handbooks published
by the Oxford or Cambridge University Press ; a
copy of Bohn's {reissue at one shilling of their
library !) " Plotinus " published by Bell who have

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 223

bought Bohn out ; a copy of Rev. Collin's
" Plautus and Terence " published by Blackwood
at one shilling (reissue), and any Joseph Conrad
novel at one shilling except " Typhoon." That'll
cost you three shillings in toto.

Love.

To his Wife.

June 29th. 1915.
We are jogging along under the impression that
we are having a slack time but on going over our
figures for the last month the " slack "ness proves
to be only by comparison with our tremendously
busy spells in May, when we handled our two
hundred wounded cases a day in C. section alone.
I myself helped with the " dressing " of over
150 in 43 hours in our operating tent, and 400 in
the week, after which I went up to the Adv. for
three days. In those ten days I had my boots
of^ four times, my trousers three, which may
impress you till I mention that a whole platoon of
the — ^th didn't get their boots off for eight days
and slept in their full marching order six nights !
Some men of that Platoon had to mount guard
after those eight days and march the next day
five miles. The next day they marched up again
and delivered the great ragtime charge of the

224 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

" — th " which took three lines of trenches, and
the description of which will still reduce any
trained regular to a state of imbecility through
laughing. I didn't see the charge, but I went over
the ground and I heard the " story " from over
forty participants while it was still very fresh
and so were they. They are an amazing lot of
cockneys — ex newsboys and such and — well I'll
tell you about it one of these days. Part of the
joke was that we didn't want three lines of
trenches just there only one and the officials had
a devil of a time getting the men to retire to the
first line taken (the only one tenable), and when
they got there they found it full of their supports
who had come up and who in turn didn't. want to
go back etc. etc. ad lib. There really is a lot of
genuine humour in war. I sw^ear I've heard more
real mirthful, im jarring laughter in the last six
months than in the previous six j^ears. I am
developing a theory that men who face death
have a right to face it how they please, so long as
their attitude is genuine, and the happy go lucky,
laughing philosopher attitude of our men (between
fits of "I want to go home " depression) is
absolutely true and neither assumed nor callous.
To laugh while laying out a dead is perfectly
natural if anything funny happens and jars
on no one present. To force a solemn face

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 225

and funeral mien is fake and does jar on most
susceptibilities.
No more paper.

Love.

July 1st, 1915.

Dearest.

What a bat ! It has knocked all the
ambulance speechless and I am suspected of being
a county pla^-er in disguise. Who in the world
chose it ? Of course the make is a good one, but
it is such an exceptionally good specimen. May hew
M'ho has played 2nd County Cricket says he has
never lifted a better and our other one or two
experts are equally impressed.

I like the photo of " ours " but it has made me
unhappy to see how my baby is changing. I
shall have to make the acquaintance of a com-
parative stranger I'm afraid, when I come march-
ing home. — " Marching " looks quite an odd word.
I haven't had a mile march — or walk — in the
last fortnight.

Things are still pretty monotonous. Still on
" evacuations " to which I have now added the
" grubbing " of our section. I dishes out their
beastly dinners — ^which is not good for my already
feeble appetite, and draw their daily bread and
jam and cheese from the Q.M. Stores.

p

226 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

We have had just a gUmmer of excitement
to-day : a score or so shells on a slag-heap a few
hundred yards a\va3^ Very few of them exploded,
whereat a great reawakening of the — " German
ammunition running out " story is now in
process.

It's very difficult to write — continual interrup —

Love to you all.

To his MotJier-in-Law.

July 3rd, 1915.

Thank you ever so much for the bat. I don't
know how you managed to get hold of such a
magnificent one. Of course you went to a good
place and paid a good price but some people
could do all that and still get an indifferent quality
wood. This has aroused such enthusiasm here
that you'd think I exaggerated if I told you — but
I don't. Mayhew who is a judge says it is the
best he has ever played with.

There is a joke about it which must wait
till I see you as it involves official secrets — ■
of a sort, and might touch the censor hereof
nearly.

We are having a very monotonous time : each
day like the last or the next. The variation in
number of sick or wounded per diem is very slight

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 227

and always well within our capacity. We had a
tiny rush the other day, which however did not
last. An occasional dental parade will occupy an
afternoon but as a rule our day's work begins at
6 a.m. and ends before 2 p.m. In the afternoon
we leave just enough to keep the place going and
adjourn to a field a couple of hundred yards away
for cricket among ourselves or football with the
Indians (who won't attempt cricket). Occasion-
ally a convoy interrupts our game about 4.30
and again after tea we are kept mildly busy till —
perhaps — 9 p.m. It's a dull monotonous life.
We are all longing to get up to the advanced
station again. We are nearly three and a half
miles behind the firing line here, and have only
drawn lire — to any extent — once since we've
been here — a month now. We are losing a few
men (losing only meaning that the}^ are no longer
with us) with eye trouble and other minor troubles
due I think mainly to nerve strains. The Staff
Sergeant of B. section came back from the
advanced station a walking skeleton. I hadn't
seen him for a fortnight and he quite horrified me.
I never saw a man lose flesh so. Curious the
difference in temperaments, the sergeant in charge
of the Adv. I spent Easter at had been there — in
the most exposed " Adv " I ever saw — for over
three months and he looked as healthy as any

228 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

man I ever saw. Men who can't stand the strain
either get jobs in the divisional laundries, bakeries,
etc. or get further back still to Boulogne or other
bases where they are employed somehow. Some-
times they turn out very useful there. It is not
considered the slightest disgrace to be sent back
with this or that ailment, unfitting one for the
hard life up here, but still leaving one quite
capable of useful work on the lines of communica-
tion.

This is not to prepare you for any departure
from the front on my part. I am quite fit again
and haven't got any nerves to get upset.

I hope you are giving up all subscribing to
charities and buying War Loan instead. I'm
sick of these charities. Most of them are all
wrong : their beastly tobacco funds that send us
out absolutely unsmokable tobacco and the
society that presents us with hair brushes !
(Consider : what are we to do with hair brushes
and how are we to carry them ?) and weird shaped
shirts, and tubes of pain-killer. They are all
wrong. They aim — feebly at making war endur-
able. The War Loan is to end it. Subscribe to
that and nothing else. It's the only thing that'll
be any use.
Love.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 229
To his Dog.

July 6th, 1915.

My dear Emma

Do 5^ou realise that I haven't written to
you once in four months away ? Do you ? If
you don't, I am hurt, if you do and don't mind
realising it I am still more hurt. Taken either
way you are a heartless little dog and you don't
deser\'e a letter.

There is only one hope for you. You may be
too proud to enquire wdth suitable asperity, why
I have not written. I leave it to you, ai'e j^ou
proud ?

If so what of ? Your ears ? — I beg your
pardon ; I forgot Firstie. Of course you've a right
to be proud after all, but I don't see your point.
Wh}/ should your natural pride in Firstie be too
great for you to complain of my remissness. You
are illogical Emma, as well as heartless. I don't
see what you're getting at.

If you see that son of mine, you might give him
my love and tell him to get his hair cut. If it
hasn't been cut since the photo it must be too
long by now — unless it grows backwards : in
AX'hich case he must have a knot tied in each hair
close to his blessed little scalp to prevent it growing
in too far and coming out of his chin as whiskers.

230 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Will you see to this ? I don't want to come back
and find my little boy sprouting a beard : he's
too young for such things.

Please give my love to Mrs. Chapin with this,
letter enclo. It's a silly sort of letter — a great
mistake I know — ^but — entre nous — (that's French)
I'm a silly sort of person and subject to quite
idiotic moods when I start thinking about all
my darlings at home in England.

Bless you all.

To his Wife.

My dear One.

Your description of Vallie's greeting is
lovely. I've read it twenty times. I love it —
but it hurts me too. Don't think I grudge you
one pearl's-worth of his love but — it throws my
situation into a cruelly clear light. I've only seen
him — he's only seen me that's the point — ten
days in the last eight months of his short life.
I shall come back in a few months' time to a —
well almost a stranger, a sweet little stranger of
course but he's bound to be shy with me — even
though — as I know you are doing — you talk about
me to him very often and do your best to — ^well —
keep my memory green. He's been looking to
you for everj^thing and only hearing about me as

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 231

a fairy story — Oh don't think, please don't think
I'm being jealous. I can be sorry for myself
without being the least little bit grudging to you.
I really am more glad than I can express, that you
have got his love — and appreciate it — to make up
— it's such simple plain sailing work being loved
by a baby — to make up for the unkindness and
exaction that I have mixed up with my love for
you, until I've made rather a trjdng business of
it for 3^ou, you poor dear. I wonder if I shall do

any better after I'm afraid I shan't 3^ou know,

I shall make a good start and — I've got a rotten
disposition, that's what's the matter. I'm full
of good : — ideals, courage, kindness etc. but I
who am full of them am — ^well I've got a rotten
disposition. And you know it — don't you ?

The last need not be answered. I know you
know it just as well as I know it myself. I hope
you realize my good contents though and how
distressing it is for me — unashamedly conscious
of them — to be equally conscious what a poor
show I make of them — what a rotten ensemble
they and I make together.

To go back over this letter and gather some
lose ends. Do you understand that what I
really mean is not that Vallie will seem strange
to me, but that I shall be a stranger to him. He's
been growing out of me for these last most

232 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

impressionable months, just when he was acquiring
a vocabulary and an enquiring mind for simpler
metaphysics otherwise religion. Just the months
I wanted to guide him through. Oh, my dear, be
careful of his vocabulary and his rehgion. Don't
let him use one word for more than one idea and
don't let him think that to pray for a thing gives
him a right to expect it from God by return of
post. Teach him one simple thing — an obviously
true one — that if God is Omnipotent, all seeing,
all knowing, and good, all prayer should be con-
cluded wdth " Thy will be done." Omission of
this may end in a very rebellious frame of mind
after some devout — and ungranted — prayer. All
prayers are not granted. Teach him that if
anything.

What a letter !

God bless you my Darling.

July 7th, 1915.

It is boilmg hot to-day. It has been getting
steadily warmer for a couple of weeks but
these last tw^o days have been much hotter and
to-day is tropical. Imagine what we suffer in
the same heavy khaki and flannel shirts we were
wearing at Christmas, puttees and heavy boots.
You know how ill I endure hot weather. I feel —
well ; rabid. How I shall endure three months
of hot weather (July Aug and Sept.) God knows.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRA:\IATIST 233

I hate it like poison : makes me feel so slack.
It's got to be stuck though like many — presumably
— worse things.

By the way, did I ever thank you adequately
for the spaghetti. I simply loved it : had it the
night it arrived. I can't remember whether I
expressed myself about it or not. I have a habit
of composing letters to you in the night, when I
cannot sleep, or when I am shaving or cleaning
my boots or searching my shirt for " pediculi " or
doing suchlike mind-free things. I think this to
you or that to you — ^just as eight, seven, six, 3'ears
ago I used to think conversations with you.

The devil of it is I sometimes think a letter and
remember it but not whether I ever ^vrote it or
not,

Compris ?

Love.

July loth, 1915.

Dearest Mine

I am so sorry not to be with you at such a
time. I know how much of it will fall on j'ou and
what a gloomy, long winded, affair the funeral
is bound to be. I cannot find any feeling in
m3'self about him ; ^^•e ha\"e all kno\\-n so long
it was coming and I have seen so man}^ die out
here that a death is not so looming a thing now as

234 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

it used to be. You, though I do feel most awfully
for. I can see you looking pinched and tired and
pale and sticking the long useless service because
it's got to be stuck, and the long ride there and
the long ride back in the stuffy funeral carriage —
I have a hope you may come back some other
May — will all add their weight of depression —
where depression is needless. What's the use of
an orgy of heart-heaviness to anyone.

Now about leave. I have asked and had
audience of the CO. who was most kind, but
there's no hurrying matters, understand that.
My application to the CO. was backed by Lieut.
Dixon and has now gone on to the Divisional
Medical Bosses backed by the CO. but at present
only one medical at a time can be spared from the
division and (as this is not a death-bed-side
matter) I must wait my turn for (probably) a
month or six weeks at least, by which time (let's
be hopeful) the Germans will perhaps have started
their big attack or we shall have started ours
or an epidemic will have broken out or something
unforeseen will have occurred and all leave will
be stopped.

Bless you all and Emma.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 235
To his Son.

July loth. 1915.

My Blessed Man let.

I rather like your photo in the sailor
suit but I love the one with Mummy and
Joan that the Special Constable took outside
the flat.

By the way old man ; do you wear a black silk
handkerchief with j^our sailor suit ? Because
you ought to, you know. Ever since Nelson was
killed on his ship at Trafalgar, sailors have worn
a black silk handkerchief under the sailor collar
with the ends tied into a sailor knot in front in
memory of him — and he's worth remembering.
Get Mummy or Granny or someone to stand you a
plain black hanky, big enough to go round, and
fold it from comer to corner and wear it as I've
told 3'ou.

Have you heard that the Kaiser (who you did
not tear up and put into the dust shoot for all
3'our boasting) has said that he's going to end
this war by October — that's in three months' time,
less than a hundred days. Of course he means
he's going to win it in that time. He's wrong,
poor man, but it's nice to hear him talk that way,
because, when people talk that way, they gene-
rally do something silly, and when he does

236 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

something sill}^ we'll catch him such a wallop
that you'll hear it at home in England.
Love from your

DOODY.

To his Mother.

July I2th, 1915.

Dearest Mater

Thanks so much for the books. It's such
a treat to get good reading again. We are
swamped with old magazines of the inferior type
but can get little else.

I'm rather a lone coon these days. All mj^
more intimate pals are either at other stations,
sick and down at the base, or gone to com-
missions, and two are dead. I'm on excellent
terms with the whole unit but — well, a little
lonesome never-the-less. I miss Fisher (gone
to a commission) more than most. We had
subjects in common.

Write often.

Love,

To his Wi/Ci

July 14th, 1915.

My Dear One

It looks as if my leave would either be
refused or be a long time coming. Please, please
don't be too disappointed. I hate to think of you

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 237

being distressed. I have had a very plain hint
and circumstances suggest that all leave may be
stopped for our unit — ^nothing serious, don't
worry. Oh and please don't don't be too dis-
appointed. I'm sick enough without thinking
about you feeling miserable over on your side.
After all you have got Vallie to cheer you up.

Anjnvay the old war can't last for ever — or
even for long at this rate. The news is good isn't
it ? Africa, Russia, France and the Dardanelles,
all moves towards an end. I stick to the
November to Xmas idea.

To his Son.

July 14th, 1915.

Vallie my Poppet

What time do you have breakfast in the
morning ? Please tell me. I have mine at
about ten minutes past eight. At eight o'clock
I start dishing out the tea (with one hand) and
the bacon (with the other) to my section. This
takes me about ten minutes — there are about
thirty of them. (I mn quick, aren't I) ? Then
at ten past eight I fry myself a piece of bread in the
bacon fat and that's my breakfast. A big piece
of fried bread and a mug of tea. Sometimes I
have a little piece of bacon, but not often, because
I don't like bacon the way we cook it here, and

238 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

cold iiito the bargain, and of course after serving
out all the rest my piece is cold.

Do you ever have fried bread ? Try it. It's
awfully nice and very good for you, not too thin
and only just crisp not hard. Try it and write me
how you like it.

Oh my boy I do want to see you again.

To his Wife.

July 19th, 1915.

Flies are our present terror. Seriously ; it is
impossible to sleep after day break without
covering the face, they swarm so. We keep them
down wonderfully in the hospital but everywhere
else (Oh, my dear, the estaminets !) they darken
the air.

Yes, send me a couple of light shirts. Of course
you cannot understand that under the conditions
out here one wears whatever shirt comes along
when one has the good fortune to get a bath.
There is no private property. The shirt I wore
last week may be worn by an engineer, a rifleman,
or (possibly) Capell next. There is no poss. of
getting one's things back. You simply hand in
a shirt and a pair of sox and get a pair of sox and
a shirt in return from store. Still send a couple.
I may be able to keep them a few weeks and if

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 239

only two it'll be worth it. When one stays in
one place, one can accumulate a little but it all
has to be abandoned at a move. You know we
can only take what we can carry in our haver-
sacks and rolled in our great coats. Those kit
bags were given up when we left Hatfield.

I don't wear underwear. It only gets dirty.
The less one wears the better.

Above was interrupted yesterday for a move.
Cannot give details in green envelope. I'm afraid
it won't go till to-morrow now, but will hurry it
off. First moment I have had to spare since left
off yesterday.

To his Mother.

July 19th, 1915.

My dearest Mater,

We are up among the guns again but some
distance behind the trenches. We are sharing
with the French local medical authorities. A
hospital with beds ! A good proportion of the
blesses are civilians and a very bad proportion
of these are children. Two on a stretcher, my
dear, that scarcely weigh enough to notice between
them, miteb of five or six.

This is where you curse the Germans, imless
you have imagination enough to remember that

240 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

we probably maim our share of little ones among
those that are imfortunate enough to inhabit
the danger zone behind the enemy trenches.
If you are to have war with ten, twelve, twenty
mile range guns and civies and their families
will take their chance and live in the danger zone —
3'ou can finish the syllogism for yourself.
Write often.

Love.

To his Wife.

July 2ist, 1915.

" They " are shelling something — I dunno
what — and hitting a slag-heap at a mine head a
couple of hundred yards away. The shells pass
nearly over this house and make the place hum.
Nobody seems to mind (I'm sure / don't so long
as they pass along) I presume " they " are after
some batteries near here. They are a long way
out if they are.

It's awfully hot again and the flies are terrible.

Love.

July 22nd, 1915.

Dearest

I am quite incapable of doing justice to
this morning's entertainment. " They " have
been shelling the most thickly— and poorly—

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 241

populated part of this little mining tovm. Some
of us went up into it getting the wounded out.
Houses, men, women, and children blown to
pieces by huge high explosives — and more shells
coming over every few minutes, all within a couple
of hundred yards of the hospital. I want to
tell j'Ou all I see — all that happens to me out
here, but I must fail to convey it — and I don't
want you quite to share my feelings. Amazing,
ironic contrasts abounded : within five minutes
of each other came in a self-possessed young
woman of about ten to have the remains of her
arm cut off — perfectly calm — ^walked in — ^never
cried or showed the least excitement — and a man
of fifty on a stretcher with a mangled leg who
roared out in an enormous mad voice for his
" Maman " over and over again till he was
anaesthetised. Could any creation of the imagina-
tion equal this ? Or this scene in a squalid
kitchen ; — a huge woman dead on her face across
the threshold, a little child also dead at her feet, the
legs of her men folk (husband and son ?) straggling
across the foot way outside (I am keeping back
all the hundreds of horrible details, hard though
it may be to believe it) and her remaining daughter
a child of about twelve — leaping back and forth
over the bodies struggling to get a chain from the
neck of the body. " Souvenir ! " I tried to get

Q

243 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

her away — she was half mad — but was assailed
fiercely by neighbours on her behalf, who seemed
to regard her desire for a memento of her mother
under the circumstances, most natural and com-
mendable. While I was being suppressed
another shell came over and we went to earth
in a heap, the hundred yards away crash bringing
down plaster and crockery on to our heads and
the flying pieces of " case " buzzing past the
windows like enormous bees or small aeroplanes.
When they had settled the child returned to the
chain — armed now with a carving knife — and I
left her to it.

Next Day.

From the tragic to the ridiculous : a shell has
just blown in the wall of our cook house (no one
hurt) and blown out our dinner. Half rations in
consequence. Half rations are all I can eat so
don't pity me.

Love.

July 25th, 1915.

My Dearest

Of course if 3'ou've gone so far as seeking
a house in Devonshire, go by all means. I didn't
understand from your letter that it was anything
more than a suggestion which I didn't like
because it would curtail my time with you if I

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 243

got leave during the time you were there. The
other reason wasn't a reason at all — just a vague
feeling of regret for one more might-have-been
lost to me. You can't understand of course.
It's ridiculous of me to expect any sane person to
— ^pitiful, idiotic, feelings of lost, lost, lost — not
at all constant but recurring. There are plenty
of places left for us to go to for our honeymoon.
We had talked of Devonshire for the other, that's
all, and I'm a sentimental fool. It suggested
somehow to me a fresh start from an old dream
for us.

Oh, Slops ! I'm in love so forgive them.

P.S. Later on reading your letter again.

If Shaw wanted giggling he'd ask for it. If
he says " worriedly etc. " he means it. Play on
the lines and don't go outside them. The Man-
chester Dramatists need this help from actors
just as the Glasgow ones used to. They scarcely
draw their characters at all. How many different
girls could you see in the situation of — say —
the " Younger Generation " ? Is there any
reason in the lines why Fanny in " Hindle Wakes "
shouldn't be a cheerful little fair girl or an ill
tempered tall dark one — any sort of self-support-
ing modem mill girl ? Shaw doesn't need building
upon. The less you go outside him the better.

244 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Be adequate to his lines — that is what's wanted.
Of course you must appreciate the lines.

July 29th, 191 5.

My Dearest

You've got to open some sort of a home for
me if I get leave. I can't tell you how I long to
sit in a room again — a room with a door that will
shut out people. Most of the " horrors of war "
are entertainments just a shade — or a lot — too
exciting or painful to appreciate till they are
over ; but the absolute lack of privacy for hours,
days, weeks, months, accumulating and piling
one on another is a source of real miser}'', far
exceeding the physical discomforts of sleeping under
an overcoat on a waterproof sheet on a stone floor
or going without an occasional meal or night's sleep.

Comic : I was roused in the night (being on
twenty-four hours' duty at the dressing station) —
or rather at 2 a.m. just as I was getting off to
sleep, after having fetched in a dozen odd minor
blesses, by a tall gentle voiced orderly shaking
me gently and saying : " Corporal — there's a
man here's been and yawned and he can't get
his mouth shut ! "

It was quite true. The poor fellow had dis-
located his jaw yawning. How blase ! Fancy a
company of engineers (he was an engineer)

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 245

roused out at 2 a.m to go up and do their really
dangerous work in front of the trenches and one
of them yawns so much that he dislocates his jaw '
I took him round to Major Dawson who came
down calmly, wrestled gently but firmly with the
unhappy man for about half a minute, restored
his jaw to the normal and returned to bed. The
man walked back to the station with me. Ses he
with deep feeling, " Nobody will ever know what
that minute was like." Exact words I assure
you.

Dearest your letter arrived just this seconds
I am so sorry I told you about the shelling — but
I hate to suppress anything when I write to you*
Of course there's a little danger to every one out
here but how very little to me or any one person !
No amount of activity can make me occupy more
than about two and a half cubic yards of space.
A really heavy bombardment doesn't hit every-
where at once — or a thousandth part of every-
where and we stand a very slight chance of getting
anything like a heavy bombardment here. Why,
hundreds of civilians are still living here ! Esta-
minets are open, mines working.

There is something rather curious in your being
frightened over this last little entertainment,
when you weren't over the really hot time we had
at the end of May. It is that in the May caboosh

246 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

I never felt the least tremor of fear and the other
day I was for the first time quite panicky. I am
inclined to think that the May calmness was a
mixture of fatigue and lack of " reality " in the

show. I came up from " " already tired out

and plunged into the fag end of a long and hot
engagement. The very number of dead and
wounded and pieces, the vividness of the flashes,
the volume of sound were too great to derive self-
applicable knowledge from — only a general — and
rather — no I'll be honest — very enjoyable sensa-
tion of animation and alertness and excitement. It
was so enormous and ear-splitting that the mystery
behind life and death and light and darkness
and noise seemed more realisable for expressing
itself thus tremendously, and the medium of its
expression took a more palpably secondary place
to it as mere mediums and not ultimate realities.
The dozen shells the other day were, au
contraire, separate distinct, each one explained
itself clearly to the lesser domestic side of the
mind and foretold what the next one might do.

Don't worry about me. I am well — sensible —
in a safe employment (consider if I were in the
infantry !) The chances in favour of my coming
back a good deal fitter than I came out are
enormous.

Love.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 247

July 30th, 1915.

Sweetheart

Do you say anything to Vallie about the
chance of my coming home for a couple of days
only ? If I do get leave I don't want the blessed
boy to think if he sees me that I am home for
good. It's difficult, isn't it ? Of course you
mustn't raise his hopes of seemg me at all. Oo-er !
Very difficult.

Things are very quiet here so don't be frightened
about me — not that I was altogether sorry to get
your upset letter. It's gratifying, you know, to
feel that someone cares as much as that, though
it sounds selfish to say so. Any\^•a\' you've no
grounds for worry just now. The Mar seems to be
" Off " for the time being as far as we here are
concerned.

Love to my brat and his Mummy — I quite
believe he is a duck.

July 31st, 1915.

Sweetheart

Yes, news in general is quite healthy isn't
it — but remember no news can be bad as long as
the Russian army is not disorganised and the
Allies go on with their job. It may be made a
slightly longer job by this or that German coup
or a slightly shorter job by this or that German

248 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

blunder but it will be done — " Naught can make
us rue if the Allies to themselves do prove but
true." Steadfastness in the authorities and
fortitude in the peoples are all that are wanted —
and they seem to be forthcoming.

Will 3'Ou please call on Alfred Dunhill of Duke
Street St. James (or get Lai to do it) and pay for
the repair of a pipe I sent him to do a couple of
days ago. Do this soon, there's a dear.

I am glad to gather that I do right in giving
you the worst as well as the best of my news.
I suppose you will take it as good that we now
expect to go back for a rest shortly. I'm blest
if I do. " Rests " out here are beastly things
with drills and kit inspections and revising
equipments to make every day a misery. I can
honestly say that the terrors of kit inspection beat
those of any bombardment I have yet seen, and
I would rather empty three hundred bed-pans than
do half an hour's stretcher drill " by numbers."
However these things must be endured. We've
had a ripping time here, that's something.

Some assorted sick just come in — • excuse
me. — No I'd better close — getting near post
time.

Love.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 249

To his Son.

Same Date.

Vally.

Hullo little boy, how are you ? I'm fine.
We're fighting flies just now more than Germans ;
there are millions and millions and millions of
them. If you open a pot of jam they knock you
down and take it away from you before you can
say " Smiffins " and they wake you up in the
morning by running up and down your nose —
Oh they're horrid but we kill millions of them
every day. We squirt stuff over them and bum
their homes and hide our food (so they starve
a bit) and catch them in traps. Oh my, they
are a nuisance. They are great friends of the
Germans these flies, and help them all they can.
When the Germans shoot a shell at us and the
pieces cut a man's face or hand the flies get on to
the place and make it dirty so that it takes a
long time to get better. Beasts !

Heaps of love my dear man.

Your DooDY.

To his Wife.

Aug. 2nd, 1915.

Sweetheart

I am very worried about my leave — it
looks more and more like falling through. We

250 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

are still " here " and while we remain here I have
no hope of leave.

Don't worry about Warsaw or anything, just
keep smiling — live as economically as you can —
and make up your mind that after the War we
shall be able to make up for the lean years with a
vengeance — and a clear conscience.

We are fearfully busy to-day — ^not with blesses
— tent mucking etc. and above all fly slaying and I
only had four hours' sleep last night so au revoir.
Dearest, I'm going to turn in at eight and it is
already half-past seven. I must wash and make
down my " bed " — a waterproof sheet, overcoat,
tunic, and waterproof cape, very comfy when you
are tired as I am I assure you. I have had two
nights in a bed lately and quite a number in
blankets.

Bless you both.

To his Son.

Aug. 4th, 1915.

Darling little Boy

I heard all about you and those carpets —
I hope you helped them to find Gram a nice one.

Are you getting very tired of waiting for me to
come home ? I suppose you are used to me being
away by this time though, aren't you ? You

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 251

will have to get used to me when I come back
more likely.

When I come back for good — which won't be
for a long time yet — I'm going to start your
ed-u-ca-tion young man ! Ed-u-ca-tion ! I hope
you know what it means because I don't and
if I start your education and we neither of us know
what it means we shan't get on very well, shall
we ? We should have to make a start by finding
out. You might ask Gram and Mummy and
Auntie Lai what Ed-u-ca-tion means and let
me know each of their answers if you've time. In
the meantime be a good little boy and keep your
eyes open and always put your feet down flat,
chew your food well and breathe through 3^our
nose.

Bye Bye — I may perhaps come home for a few
days before the end of the war. Won't it be nice
if I do ? — but I'm not sure and it will be only
for a very few days just to see you and be off
again.

Your DooDY.

To his Wife.

Calypso dear — I wonder if Vally asks as many
questions as ever ? If he does be a dear and try
hard not to choke him off. Children must ask

252 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

questions — of course it's trying when one is tired
or thinking of other things to explain why cats
have tails etc. but do your best. Don't just say
" I don't know " and leave it at that. Say " I
don't know — we'd better ask — so and so " —
In short keep his mind enquiring even the most
foolish things rather than taking anything for
granted.

Later.

I am now back at the main dressing station
so you needn't worry about me so much for a bit.
They have shelled us as far as this it is true, but
such shelling is not a daily or even a weekly
occurrence.

We came back rather suddenly : at twenty-
five to eleven came a cyclist round to the billet
when I was having a wash : " Parade full
marching order eleven " — I just got my coat
roUed and my haversack and water bottle on and
bolted to the parade and off we marched here.

Tuesday.

And now we're right back under canvas full
fifteen miles behind the line enjoying — or about
to enjoy — ^perhaps — a month's rest. I am in
charge of one of the bell tents (temporarily named
" Hope Cottage ") and fourteen inmates thereof

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 253

— rather a crowd. Our tents are pitched in a
tiny field, bounded on two sides by ditches and
on the third by an eight foot stream and dotted
with enormously tall poplars — a few more and it
would be a wood. There are some willows by the

water many chickens here and

I must knock off to catch post.

Wednesday.

It poured all night but our tent kept the actual
rain out, though of course a certain dampness
prevailed. We shall dig drainage to-day and then
it won't rain any more.

The Sergeant Major has told me that unless
something happens my leave request will go up
to the A.D.M.S. again next week so there is hope
of my getting it during that (next) week. Please
let me know at once if you fix a date out of London
next week. It would be awful if you did and I
had to be in London half the time, wouldn't it ?

We seem to be in for a fairly rational sort of
rest after all. Some of the boys deny the possi-
bility of such a thing and things certainly began
badly but I am of a hopeful disposition and — well,
the weather is better for one thing and the Sergeant
Major instead of putting the " police " under
arrest for allowing a woman into the camp selling
fried potatoes, informed her, through me, that

254 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

she could come every day at breakfast and dinner
times !

Later.

We have just had our third parade to-day and
have been dismissed but told not to go away —
" be ready to fall in again." Oh for a nice shell
swept billet where the wicked cease from troubling
and the weary are at rest !

Love.

To his Son.

CockyoUy Bird to his little Master.

Oh Cookery Coo I am having a time ! He
stuffs me into haversacks and drags me out again
and leaves me head do\vnwards all night. The
Germans have blown the mess tin I used to live in
when he wasn't using it into a norful shape, so
he's left it behind where the bangs are and, my,
what a journey I've had !

Back there he used to sit me on his kit every
morning when he went on duty to look after it
for him, and he used to open that case with a
picture of you in it so's I could have you for
company. But one day he foimd me crying over
the photo — I got homesick you see — so he took
me out with him the next day to the hospital and
showed me to two little French boys that were

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 255

there— Oh horrid Httle boys I assure you Vallie !
They wanted to keep me as a souvenir ! They
ask for everything they see and get quite rude and
say " EngUsh no bon " if they don't get it. They
were begging for " souvenir cigarettes " all the
way here but they don't get any from our division
now, nasty little cadgers !

I've got a fearful lot to do — this is a rest camp,
you see — so good-bye. I may come home to see
you in a week or two just for a few days — if he
comes he's promised to bring me.
Well

doodledoo

Your old pet
Cocky Olly Bird.

[Note. — Harold Chapin was home on leave from
August 8th to August 15.]

To his Wife.

Aug. 23rd, 1915;

Sweetheart

I'm back here — found the 6th still in the
same quarters — and I'm thoroughly unsettled. I'm
homesick and Vallysick and Yousick. It's like
the first fortnight back at Boarding School or the
first week with a strange company. Why the

256 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

devil have I had so much of this mild, lonely,
unhappiness in my life ? I seem to be always
being lumped off on my own away from the people
and places I care about.

I found your letter written week before last
on my arrival here — it cheered me up after a
gloomy journey with almost comically woebegone
companions. They sang the most beautiful
songs in the train all about how much better it
would be to " stay at home "

" About the streets to roam
and live on the earnings of a lady typist "

instead of going to War and having various
specified parts of one's corporal being removed by
the agency of high explosives.

Later.
This letter started the day before yesterday
was interrupted to do some quite useless incine-
rator building which kept me busy all yesterday
and this morning. This is still a " rest camp."
It is characteristic of military life that the three
months of full duty which we have just come
through and which even in orders has been
referred to as a hard time, was really a period of
w^ell blended work, and rest tempered by common
sense and the sense of usefulness, whereas the
period of " rest " which follows — and which was

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 257

held out to us as a sort of reward for accomplish-
ment — is really a pleasant little hell upon earth
with no organised labour to speak of, but in-
numerable useless fatigues, the whole rendered
doubly maddening by a lack of nous and exuber-
ance, of illnature hard to credit in the same people
who carried on the full duty period. It's all
very illuminating — if only one could get the light
of it out of one's eyes.

We are still infernally uncomfortable. Thirteen
in a tent on wet ground (it rains every day still.
Boots etc. unless well wrapped up are always wet
by morning — inside and out.

H.P.D. talked a lot about getting me a Com-
mission, but he only mentioned A.S.C. as im-
mediate. I wish you'd ask him about the
possibiUty of Artillery. I'm not sure but I think
that would tempt me. It's fascinating work :
either field or garrison guns.
Love.

Aug. 26th, 1915.

Dearest

I have just received your letter in which you
say you are beginning to feel " jumpy," really
you mustn't write like that when I fail to write :
I do my very level best and when I cannot get a
letter off to you it worries me quite enough as it is.

R

258 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

The other day (for instance) I was going to write
to you first chance. I started a letter before
breakfast even. After breakfast I was packed off
on a job (a mere lark reall}- — trip with the tug-of-
war team) which spun itself out till six p.m.
and the post when we got back had gone. That
sort of thing is always happening. Please make
up your mind (i) that I \\Tite every day I get the
chance (ii) that j'ou'd know very quickly if
anything amiss happened to me.

Things are very peaceful here. We have taken
to road sweeping as a new hobby. The inhabitants
do absolutely nothing to keep the village clean.

Next Day.

And now we are on to a new job — cleaning
harness and generally " squaring up " the trans-
port lines. We have styled ourselves " drivers'
batmen " which is a very sarcastic description
if you could but understand it — perhaps you do.
Batman is an Indian term, isn't it? We are
rather hot at inventing new names or ranks for
ourselves. How about " Clerk to the Incinerator "
" Chief -latrine- Artificer " ? " First Lord of the
Scaby Tent " (otherwise " Scaby-King " — which
is the ordinary designation of the man in charge
of " scaby-cases " and not a joke at all).

As a matter of fact helping the transport is

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 259

rather a lark — hard work but still a lark. There
are many who grumble and talk the usual nonsense
about not having joined to do this that or the
other thing but judged independently of their
effect upon one's personal dignity (imaginary
effect), most of the jobs one gets out here can be
done in about half the time allotted to do them
in and can be done smoking and talking and are
consequently anj^thing but irksome. Give me
jobs any day rather than parades and inspections
and guards.

Let me have an answer to my query about
Artillery as soon as you can manage it.

Sergeant Tully (my best friend among the
sergeants with whom I used to go for an evening
stroll three or four times a week) has gone back
{hack doesn't necessarily mean to England) with
kidney trouble : he's had it before, I fancy the
damp here did him no good. I shall miss him,
he was a good old chap and a gentleman although
his calling was that of a railway signalman in
private life. I never heard him express an
ungenerous or indelicate thought.

We still sleep twelve in a tent and much of our
time is spent in " cooting " our shirts and under-
wear.

We are beginning to give up all hope of ever
hearing a gun fired again. All we ever see here

26o WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

are the aeroplanes setting off and returning — we
are quite a dozen miles from the front line. The
good news from Riga bucked us all up enormously
— though unfortunately it reached us in very
exaggerated form : — ten battleships and four
transports and we were rather let down when the
next morning brought it down to one Battleship
and nine minor craft with four barges or barques."
Still at its lowest it was ver}' good news and out
of a grey sky.

To-day's news of the attack on Zeebrugge is
heartening too, though — of course — not important
in itself. I still see no reason to despair of getting
back this winter. Big wars end swiftly and
unexpectedly and the Balkans look like coming in
against Turkey at last which will quite certainly
end that drain upon our resources.

Love and bless you.

To his Son.

Same Date.

My Blessed Boy

How are you and how do you like Devon-
shire ? I hear you've got a bathing suit. How
useful ! Do you ever bathe in it ?

There are two brown calves who walk about
our camp who are very anxious to be remembered

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 261

to Cocky oily Bird — they were great friends of his,
and several of the chickens who hang about
for crumbs while we're having breakfast send
their kind regards to him — they are all rather
jealous of him though. He used to tell them the
most awful whackers about his flat in London and
his houseboat on the river and this and that
and the other thing. They didn't know how much
to believe, but — as one old hen said in my hearing :
" even if it's all pretence he must have seen a
flat in London to pretend so well — and that's more
than we've ever done." He's impressed them
fearfully.

Love to you my darling — ^be very good to your
nice mummy. She's a jolly sight too good for 3^011
and that's my advice to you. Try to be good
enough to deserve such a good mummy,
and obhge

Your obedient

DOODY.

To his Wife .

Aug. 27th, 1915.

Sweetheart

I am extremely well. Things in the 6th
are improving. Milk in the tea now regular,
plenty of vegetables in the stew which is now

262 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

quite palatable — though monotonous. Also we
have found and developed several shops here
which cook us quite decent meals. Pork chops and
omelettes with well cooked potatoes and also
chips and coffee may be bought at the camp gate
in the mornings — and also hot rolls.

Rumour hath it that we are to do " Divisional
Sick " for a spell, which will keep us out of the
line the 4th and 5th taking their turn there. If
the war is going to run into the bad weather, I
hope we stick to the divisional sick which means
a permanent abode — probably in a sizable townlet.
The other possible jobs for a Field Ambulance
in this sort of permanent trench M-arfare are
divisional washing and baths and convalescent
company. They are not deemed such honourable
occupations as dressing stations but we have won
our spurs already and would like to rest on our
laurels until " the advance " comes along. I
have just had a most excellent pair of boots issued
to me — as they happen to be brown will you send
me in the next parcel either a tin of kiwi (you
know the red shade I like) or of a stuff called
somebody's " Tonej' Red " also I should like
some handkerchiefs — only one or two in each
parcel, though — at intervals.

Love Sweetheart.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 263
To his Mother.

Aug. 30th, 1915.

Most dearest Mater

Your second letter just received. Con-
sider : for this letter to catch to-morrow's out-
going post from the division I must put it in our
post bag before six p.m. to-night. Ere I write
the next word — " Corporal Chapin " — I reply
" Sir " and am given some job probably a light
one — very likely more of a joy-ride than anything
else (we are having an easy time still) but never-
the-less one that prevents this letter being finished
before six p.m. perhaps that joy-ride of a job lands
me back in camp at about dusk — Six o'clock post
bag gone to mess : to-day's post missed. This
involves the fact that — as we are only allowed to
post one letter a day — Calypso, to whom I should
wTite to-morrow will have to be postponed another
day. Perhaps that day we shall be moving : no
posting letters, even if opportunity to write them,
for a couple of days. Where are we then ?
Thursday, and a letter posted Thursday leaves
us Friday crosses Saturday (if the Channel is
clear) and probably reaches her in Devonshire
on Monday. There's a very natural week's
delay in writing, easily to be lengthened by — say —
moving to an advanced dressing station the day

264 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

after moving in general (a fairly common lot) ; the
channel boats not running for a night or two or
some other contretemps.

You people in Blighty have no idea (I'm not
surprised) what the mere moving, feeding, housing
etc. of troops involves. Remember we do every-
thing for ourselves. You are so used to having
innumerable things done for you in civil life that
you forget they are done : — ^the removal and
destruction of refuse and the obtaining of water
are examples. Another point : no civil con-
tingency ever demands the sudden quartering of
twenty to thirty thousand men in this or that
localit}^ with absolutely no reference to its suita-
bility or capacity for housing them, and at a
day or two's notice. I am more and more im-
pressed wdth the enormous capacity displaj'ed
by those authorities who are responsible for the
roads. You can't just say to the Umpty umpth
Division " you will relieve the Ooty 00th Division
on Tuesday." You have got to arrange for a
dozen thousands of infantry with artiller}^
ambulances and A.S.C. to come up a certain set of
roads while another dozen thousands come down
another certain set ; — that they are not in
" Sommevere " at the same time as it wouldn't
hold 'em — and also that " Sommevere " is not
left empty or even half empty — for the Germans

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 265

to walk into ; that certain parts thereof are under
observation (balloons generall}') and can only be
evacuated at night and that certain roads thereto
are under fire.

Do you see what an enormous thing the new
administration of war means apart from the
fighting ?

It's coming on to rain. I hope we are not in for
a wet night. We are still under canvas. Thirteen
to a tent, my little lot. Room enough for our
heads but our feet feel the pinch.

The theory is feet to the pole. The above
(scale) diagram shows how we retire to rest about

266 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

8.30 p.m. with beautiful fidelity to the theory.
The next

shows how we not infrequently find ourselves
at about 2 a.m. when we are slowly aroused by a
feeling of cold caused (i) by having left our water-
proof sheets and rolled more or less on to the
cold ground and (ii) by the exile having revenge-
fully taken our top layer of tunics, greatcoats
and capes out with him to make a bivvy (bivouac)
with.

It is raining I must go inside.
Love.

To his Wife,

Dearest

Sept. ist, 1915.

Thanks very much for your latest just
received. This letter may be broken off at any

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 267

moment and I shall post it at once. We are
waiting for the whistle to toot, fall in, and
start packing our waggons for a move — quite
an unimportant one as far as we know, not
up to the line. I shan't be sorry to leave this
part of France — it is decidedly damp — ^night
mists and unlimited dew in addition to getting
all the rain of the neighbourhood and I am rather
rheumaticky again. Not acutely by any means.
Just stiff joints and hard lumps in the muscles
in the mornings.

Don't encourage Vallie to talk about God,
there's a dear. It really troubles me very much to
think that he's having his little mind, even
slightly, swayed by. . . .

Later.
I can't remember how I meant to finish above
My meaning is : — tell him all the fairy tales or
nonsense stories you please but about God and
religious subjects only tell him what you yourself
unfeignedly believe to be true : if nothing, tell
him nothing. I want him — as I did — to find a
definite religious or philosophical attitude (which
means more, really, than a credo) towards what
he sees — what he thinks he should do — what he
fails to understand— /or himself. One cannot
learn an attitude or acquire it from others it is at

268 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

best a pose. One must make it for oneself, and
by giving a child an idea that the cosmos is a
sort of toy shop run by a tyrant (tyrants could
be benevolent — don't misunderstand the term)
with a curious hobby — the rewarding of certain
acts and the punishment of others and the forgive-
ness of certain of the latter acts as a reward for
" repentance " coupled with a belief in the tyrant's
existence — to teach a child this is to give it an
altogether unreal cosmos to face and adapt his
attitude to and build to.

Fairy tales are quite different. They are con-
fessed imaginings ; not told as authoritatives —
at least by intelligent people.

Ring off.
Love.

Sept. 4th, 1915.

Dearest

Yours just received (dated Monday). We

left in the rain and marched here in rain and

pitched our tents in the rain. Yesterday the
rain let up a bit in the afternoon but it began
again in the night and has rained all day (4 p.m.
now). Tents flooded and sopping. I am on
guard to-day. The guard tent is half an inch deep
in mud inside and surrounded by a quagmire of
yellow clay. We are encamped in a brick-field !
Love.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 269

Sept. 7th, 1915.

Sweetheart

The parcel has just arrived. Willet, Roffe,
and I are now digesting the raspberries and
cream ; thanks very much for them and the other
things.

It is a fine afternoon but threatening rain clouds
are about. It rains about two thirds of the time
here — and is very cold at night but we manage
to keep pretty cheerful. We are encamped in
a brickfield. Bricks, I may remind you are made
of clay. The tents on the upper slope — as yet
unexcavated — are fairly dry and the water
drains off pretty well from around them but it
drains down mto the dugout part, where the guard
tent is and where the cooks cook, and having got
there cannot soak away or run away : clay being
non porous and there being no lower level for
it to run to ; so it just sits on the ground and is wet
and gets puddled into a yellow liquid of the con-
sistency of house-paint, with which we are most of
us splashed to the eyes and which is just too thick
to drain into the gullies and soak-pits we dig for
its convenience.

We are fairly high up here and can see a goodish
stretch of the surrounding country. The captive
" Observation " balloon over " " (in whose

270 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

unsafe shadow we made our first main dressing
station in that town) is just visible live or six
miles away to the northward. It's curious : ever
since we came up from the base now nearly six
months ago we have been within long eyeshot
of that sunlit sausage. The country has varied
enormously in our half dozen different abodes
around it and the feeling of them has varied even

more : — The crashing excitements of " "

the desultory bullet dodging at " " (the only

place where we've had any real experience of rifle
" sniping ") the rustic peace of our last valley and

which I shall always think of as a place

wherein the civil population leave their arms and
legs lying about the doorsteps with the flies buzzing
over them.

The sun is coming on wonderfully. It is quite
hot. I shall fetch out my blanket and kit to air
and dry. It's astonishing. Six weeks ago I was
complaining of the heat and not without reason.
Talk about the English climate ! This is infinitely
worse and more variable — also more wetter.

Loud cries — Willet very pale and excited
grappling with an enormous " coot " (otherwise
louse). He makes a point of looking supremely
surprised whenever he catches one on himself
as if he were immune.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 271

Sept. 8th, 191 5.

Dearest

We did a sudden move on Sunday just
after I had closed my letter to you. 4.15 peace
— ^myself asleep against side of tent undisturbed
by rumour of an early departure for the following
morning (we get so many rumours) 5.15 we were
parading in full marching order 7.15 we were
here unloading our waggons in double quick time
in the glorious certainty of being let out into the
town if we unpacked in time to get out before the
estaminets closed. We succeeded and returned
about 8.30 to sleep on the stone floors of a school
room cheered by " a few."

We have been in this town before. It was here
that I was ill three months ago. We are about a
mile from our old premises though. Struck rather
lucky : a very adaptable school building — no
stairs, stone floors, all rooms with doors at both
ends and also opening into each other — make
ripping wards. We have spent two busy days
scrubbing, cleaning windows, crawling over glass
roofs, digging, painting, whitewashing and
generally making the place a show hospital.
Scarcely any patients yet to disturb our efforts —
or for our efforts to disturb.

We are under canvas in the playing field
adjoining the play ground.

272 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

I do like to be at work again. Altogether I
feel much cheerier. I hope to goodness I have
no more " rest camp " for the period of the war.
The weather is fine ; that too is a heartening
factor.

You'd love this part of our work, dearest, I can
just picture you with a hundred odd men at your
disposal attacking an unsanitary, dirty building
and turning it into some hospital. Money no
object and labour unlimited — ^nothing too much
trouble to undertake and every job started within
two minutes of its necessity being realized.

Post off — must finish.

Heaps of love to my dears.

To his Mother.

Sept. 13th, 1915.

Dearest Mater

Thanks for your letter. I am very glad
to see that you reached Belfast alright.

... I must make the effort to remember that
she is the baby who used to be " lootin' forward
to that " in a deep contralto voice : and who
looked so sweet in her little Dutch caps and who
was ill on the other side of a disinfected sheet on
the top floor of the " click house." . . .

Don't you dare to think this sloppy. With a
baby of my own whom I haven't seen familiarly

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 273

for nearly a year and with very fresh recollections
of men who have died near me — their little
collections of letters and photos — their weakening,
wearying oft, talks about their home people,
their chums out here, and how they got their
wounds — their gentle deliria in which it all came
out again this time more freely — sometimes in
the first and second person instead of narratively
in the first and third — sometimes even in a strange
medley of narrative and dialogue, objective and
subjective, sometimes sung to tuneless chants,
sometimes to popular melodies. Remember that
I know — not apprehensively nor vividly but just
as a matter of fact — ^that I may be providing just
such a pathetic entertainment for some other
listener one of these days, and don't dare to call
me sloppy in wanting to have you all at home on
the firm basis of affection.

Weather's gorgeous again. Nights chilly and
early morning fresh, but the sunny parts of the
day piping hot.
Love.

To his Wife.

Sept. 13th, 1915.

Dearest

We are very busy here, making the place
ship shape. I am corporal of guard to-day :
opportunity to write letters, otherwise a beastly

s

274 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

bore and a tie. Corporal of guard does not stand
on sentry post, you know, but has to be always
within call of the sentries and goes hourly rounds.
I feel rather weary to-day. I met in the town
last night three howitzer battery friends whom
I had not met since the great days in May. They
had just been paid and / had just been paid and
the result was twenty-five among the five of us
plus cigars. I stuck to Malagar (do j^ou know the
drink ? A second rate white port I should
describe it as but served small) and came through
well though my bed was not made as precisely as
usual. I believe I could have slept on a bag of
tent-pegs. Still I feel weary to-day.

Later.

Your letter just arrived. Thanks so very much
for its length, but how dare you " must stop "
when you want to go on and I want you to. It's
beyond all understanding or belief how a letter
bucks me up — and a long letter — Oh my dearest
I'd like sixteen pages per diem.

The weather is very decent again. Lucky for
me to-night. We haven't got a tent for guards.
Such sleep as I shall get will be in a bivouac made
of three waterproof sheets tied to a fence — this I
shall share with the changing pair of sentries
'' off " duty. Rather cosy. Of course the guard
must not undress or even remove boots

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 275

Above interrupted by a horse breaking loose —
easily caught again. The horses do an awful lot
to keep us entertained : adventurous brutes,
they have become — you should see the " horse
lines " in a real mess.

Just think of it ! — six months we've been in
this beastly neighbourhood and in another month
we shall be " in the winter " as we say in the army.
Not that winter weather is to be turned on by
the A.S.C. on the first of October but the autho-
rities, wisely foreseeing that winter comes along
then abouts, have chosen that month as the one
in which Winter shall be considered to begin so
we shall soon be getting an extra half hour in
" bed " in the morning and one or two other
Winter Campaign concessions.

There's no blinking it — British troops do brmg
prosperity w^herever they come in France. I
suppose the average man spends his franc a day
on eggs, butter, drinks and extra delicacies.
What a contrast to the poor French fellows who
never seem to have a pair of sous to rub together !
War's a rough enough business even on the British
commissariat and pay but

Next Day.
Off Guard. I was burdened with a prisoner
the latter half of my guard. Like most of the

276 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

minor criminals of the army whose examination
by the CO. or their company officer I have
witnessed I disHked him more for his defence
than his crime. Were I a CO. I should say :
" Two da3^s pay stopped for the offence and
twenty-eight days field punishment for the
deience.

Sept. 17th, 191 5.

Dearest

We had a jolly day up at the line yesterday
when a part}^ of us went up to work at a new aid
post in course of construction. We did an
amazing amount of work slaving like navvies with
pick and shovel at a communication trench linking
the aid post with the works. I understand that
the Engineer officer in charge of the job has
compHmented the CO. on the working parties
he sends up. Certainly we do work well when
there's anything to do. It's the idiotic " made "
work we don't put our hearts into.

The weather is splendid. There was a little
rain in the night before last (I happened to be on
guard) but that was the only rain we have had
since we came here Sunday before last. It's
rather nice revisiting a town we have been in
before : we know the shops and the estaminets
and the people. Every night when nothing

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 277

prevents it I go and have cafe au lait in the garden
of the farm do\Mi near our old quarters. Madame
there gives us " beaucoup du lait " in large bowls
— about three-quarters of a pint I should think —
piping hot and just nicely flavoured with a big
dash of coffee.

It is a month since I was home on leave — six
months since we left England. How many more,
I wonder. Fine, dr}^ weather, my dear, will make
a difference. Armies the size of ours are fearfully
weather bound. Many a man who " went west "
in the May attacks would be alive now if his boots
hadn't been so caked with mud.

Love to you dear. I want to get the war over
and get home to you and the Duck and Emma.

To his Son.

Sept. 1 8th, 1915.

My Son-bird, how are you ? I'm quite well
but a little stiff in the joints. We've been doing
a lot of digging : making a trench to carry
wounded people up and down, and we've walked
miles and miles back from the place where we
did the digging and we are tired.

We are not very near the Germans here, but
we can hear them banging away in the distance
sometimes, and last night all the sky was lit up
in their direction by a big fire — houses burning.

278 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

Yesterday — too — while we were up digging near
to them some Germans dimbed up a tower behind
their Hues, and we had to bob down into the holes
we w^ere digging to prevent them seeing us and
then our cannons banged at them and they came
down from the tower in a hurry.

I do hope you are a good little boy. It's so
much nicer to have a good little boy at home than
to have a regular little pickle. Please write and
tell me if 3'ou are a good little boy — I shall be so
pleased to hear it.

Love from your Doody.

To his Wife.

Sept. 24th, 1915.

Sweetheart Mine

This is my ideal of happiness : (under war
conditions) to arrive back, after a hard day's
navvying among the nice big bangs (I really do
like the noise of guns — unhealthy taste, eh ?) to
come back to camp and tea healthily tired, to
come back by the first batch of cars thereby
ensuring a wash unhurried and evading the wait

by the roadside at " " and to find a letter

from you waiting for me. I am sure you think
my effusions over your letters mere civil romance
but they are not. I cannot exaggerate the
pleasure I feel when I wade into a letter from you.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 279

I am so very glad that you are to have the
blessed with you again . I hate to think of you and
him apart. It makes nie feel altogether too
" scattered " (compris ?) to have a son here, a
wife there, a mother somewhere else, a sister
elsewhere. Keep him with you all you can and
talk to hmi about me a lot. I do so want to come
home to you both.

We are launching forth in many directions :
beds (for patients of course) and a young drug
store under a roof of its own ; no longer housed
with the Quarter Master's store. At present /and
some score of others are going up to the line daily
doing the most glorious navvying : knocking
cellars into each other and whitewashing the
whole into operating rooms and waiting rooms,
and bearers' billets ; digging special R.A.M.C.
stretcher trenches to connect them (A) with the
general communicating trenches and (B) with
each other and filling billions of sandbags to
protect the entrances to these cellar-stations. I
love the work, three days I slaved at a part of
the trench where it traverses a mine-yard and
came back a Frank Tinney at night. Yesterday
I was housebreaking with hammer and chisel or
pick connecting up cellars by holes knocked in
walls and making bolting holes to get in and out
through. Also we go investigating the rows and

28o WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

rows of empty houses (the Hue where we work
passes almost through a mmmg townlet now
deserted) bagging chairs, mirrors— there are many
quite good ones unbroken in the midst of the
chaos of bent girders scattered walls, roofs,
pavements even.

Everybody seems very high spirited out here
and grumbling is a thing of the past. I suspect
that the weather is reason. Day after day is
glorious — though night after night is cold.

As the weather grows colder my appetite
increases, cake most acceptable.

Posting this the morning after writing it. Was
called away to interview M. Le Directeur des
Mines apropos d'une affaire forte dificile, je
vous dis.

Love to the dear— I wish I were going to see
you both again soon. Wanted ! —

[TJie above was the last letter ever received from
Harold Chapin. The following unfinished letter
was found in his pocket-book after his death. It
was written some days before the preceding letter.]

To his Mother.

Dearest Mater

I dunno if I did or did not write to you
the day after that letter to Calypso. We've had

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 281

a good few days lately when 6 o'clock parade
(6 o'clock a.m. you understand) and dusk were
linked up by a day's work and march so that no
letters were written, and I dare swear the censor
was correspondingly rejoiced.

Our days spent trench digging (special com-
munication trenches we dig, pour chercher les
blessees not for wicked men with arms or what
would the Geneva convention say ?), our da3^s
spent trench digging are a great source of enjoy-
ment — curious, because they involve a bolted
breakfast — a seven o'clock start, an hour's jog
in a hard, springless, G.S. waggon, a halting,
single-file march of a couple of miles and a day of
back breaking work at pick and shovel followed
sometimes by march and G.S. waggon back,
sometimes by a long march and no G.S. waggon.
The secret of their charm is the feeling of doing
something actual compared with the messing
about cleaning waggons for inspection and ever-
lastingly tidying up camp to get it dirty again.
Those trenches may never be used but if ever it
is necessary to bring in wounded from the fire
trenches to the aid posts under anything of a
bombardment they will mean endless lives saved.
It's a pleasant thought. I haven't seen the Lloyd
George speech 3'ou mention. — I didn't know he'd
written anything lately. Do you know — coeval

282 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST

with his rise in popularity I am getting a bit sick
of him. He strikes me as being all enthusiasm
and no judgment — ^no sense of fitness. On the
tide and with the tide of universal approval is
not the best place for a Welshman. I prefer the
" brave man struggling with adversity " to this
popular idol playing with his admirers, being rude
to them just to show how well he can apologise
etc., etc.

Books — ^yes, I want a pocket Browning mit
everything in it ! Is such a thing to be had, I
wonder ? Of course I've got sizable pockets.
Still it's a tall order.

Anyway I want " Paracelsus " and " Men and
Women " particularly. I am on guard and
writing letters for the next two or three days
(I may only send off one a day). Our supply of
corporals is not quite adequate to the demands
made upon it and this will be my fourth night
on guard in a fortnight. — Rather fatiguing work,
involving a night of cat naps fully dressed and
booted and a final rise at a little after 4 a.m. to
call the cooks and " duties," hoist the flag and
remove the lamps and finally (at 5 a.m.) to call
the camp in general.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 283

Later

(Sunday in fact)

Oh, my dear, I wish you could see your golden
haired laddie sitting by the roadside waiting for a
waggon, — time 5 p.m.

I have been for two days digging through the
slag heap of a mine ! A mine ! Our trench
happens to go that way I am as black as a coal
heaver.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 285

APPENDIX A.
HAROLD CHAPIN'S PLAYS.

" Augustus in Search of a Father " One Act.

" The Marriage of Columbine " . . Four Acts.

" Muddle Annie " One Act.

" The Autocrat of the Coffee Stall " One Act

" Innocent and Annabel " .. .. One Act.

" The Dumb and the Blind " . . One Act.

" The Threshold " One Act.

" Elaine " . . . . . . . . Three Acts.

" Art & Opportunity " . . . . Three Acts.

" Wonderful Grandmama " . . . . Two parts.

" The New MoraHty " . . . . Three Acts.

" It's the Poor that 'Elps the Poor " One Act.

" Every Man for His Own " . . One Act.

" Dropping the Baby " . . . . One Act.

" The Philosopher of Butterbiggins " One Act.

" The Well Made Dress Coat." . . Four Acts.

286 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST
APPENDIX B.

QUEEN'S THEATRE

Licensed by the Lord Chamberlain to Mr. ALFRED BUTT
25, Marlborough Place, London)

Kindly lent by Mr. FREDERICK WHELEN

THE HAROLD CHAPIN

Memorial Performance

To Build a Y.M.C.A. Hut at the Front
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 14th, at 6 o'clock.

COMMITTEE :

Chairman, Sir Herbert Tree.

Henry Ainley. Sidney Dark. J. T. Grein.

William Archer. P. Michael Faraday. Ernest Mayer.
Frederick Whelen. •

Hon. Manager, G. Dickson-Kenwin.
Hon, Secretary, Miss Ruth Parrott.

WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST 287

PROGRAMME

Four One-Act Plays by HAROLD CHAPIN

"It's the Poor that 'elps the Poor"

Mrs. Harris . . BLANCHE STANLEY

Mr. Harris . . . . STANLEY TURNBULL

Mr. Charles King . . PERCIVAL CLARKE

Mrs. Pipe . . . . AGNES THOMAS

Emily Pipe.. .. KATHLEEN RUSSELL

WiUy Pipe . . . . JACK RENSHAW

Mr. Pickard . . BEN FIELD

Mrs. Manley . . SYDNEY FAIRBROTHER

Keity .. .. IDA CAMERON

Alfred Wright .. BEN WEBSTER

Walter Wright . . A. HARDING STEERMAN

Mrs. Herberts .. CALYPSO VALETTA

Ted . . ... . . GERALD du MAURIER

Produced by W. G. FAY

Stage Manager - W. T. LOVELL

"The Dumb and the Blind'*

Joe .. .. ^ ... HENRY AINLEY

Liz « ELSIE DAWSON

Bill NORMAN PAGE

Emmy .. ... .. IRENE ROSS

Produced by SIDNEY VALENTINE
Stage Manager • J. STEWART DAWSON

288 WAR LETTERS OF A DRAMATIST
" The Philosopher of Butterbiggins "

For the First Time on any Stage

David CAMPBELL GULLAN

Lizzie HILDA TREVELYAN

John Bell . . . . ALLAN JEAYES
Produced by H. K. AYLIFF
Stage Manager - CHARLES RUSS

Interval of Fifteen Minutes.

"Innocent and Annabel"

Achilla Innocent . . STANLEY LOGAN
Mrs. Achille .. MARY JERROLD

Annabel .. .. ALICE CHAPIN

Servant .. .. MAY EDWARD SAKER

Produced by EILLE NORWOOD
Stage Manager - OSWALD MARSHALL

All the Artistes appear by kind permission of their respective
Managers.

Hon. Manager .. G. Dickson-Kenwin

(By permission of Mr. J. T. Grein)
Hon. General Stage

Manager . . J. Stewart Dawson

(By permission of Messrs. Vedrenne & Eadie)
Hon. Stage Manager
(for Queen's

Theatre) . . . . Charles Russ

(By permission of Mr. Frederick Whelen)
Hon. Musical Director Napoleon Lambelet

[Note. — As a result of this performance, a " Harold
Chapin " Y.M.C.A. Hut has been erected in France in the
advanced British Lines.]

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